The Black Canary
by apeacockpersian
Summary: A dying Nasher's throne, promised to Casavir's son, falls into the claws of Nevalle's daughter by a demonic emissary. Amidst Blood War politics, a knight seeks love, and two paladins for the safety- and throne- of their child. Casavir/OC, Nevalle/OC.
1. Triptych I

**The Black Canary: Triptych One**

"Love and hatred are a matter of the will, which is rooted in the soul; therefore they cannot by any cunning be caused by the devil. " -_The Malleus Maleficarum_

Neverwinter's power extended far beyond the walls of its city, spilled onto the surrounding landscape and coated the city-state's kingdom with a transparent veil of order. Citizens of the city living honestly outside the metropolis upheld that law, believed religiously in its invisible existence. But for the lawless brigands that roamed the countryside of the City of Skilled Hands, those atheists to the belief in Neverwinter's authority outside its castles and courts, law was invisible _and_ nonexistent.

Until Nasher's knights thundered across their territory, and order manifested as soldiers in silvery armor and cobalt heraldry. Then, no villainy was safe in the shadows of Neverwinter's walls.

At the head of the knights' brigade, Casavir pressed his heels into his bay stallion's sides, cantering to the peak of another summit. Reining his horse to a halt, the paladin gazed from his new vantage point at the flat patch of farmland situated against the mountains. Farmers tilled the field under the gaze of Greycloaks stationed at the weathered keep. Casavir turned his eyes further down the trail. _Crossroad _Keep. It had been sixteen years since the murder of the Knight Captain. The paladin's memory of the incident was sharper than ever as he stood in the presence of his Knight Captain's stronghold. His emotional response, however, had been dulled considerably since last he'd visited there. He was at peace, and for once, felt happiness despite the place.

His wife rode up alongside him, breathless. Her black hair had tangled at the nape of her armor's neck, but her peridot eyes smiled with relentless energy. Thirteen years his junior, her vigor seemed endless, her youthful beauty constant. She was Sisserou Dianarca, his love. Her cynical expression highlighted the smirk upon her carmine lips and matched the sarcasm in her voice that noted, "Rare is the day _you_ best me in horsemanship."

"My lady, there is a stark difference between good horsemanship and choosing the swifter steed in the stable," Casavir replied with a grin, "But if you'd like a finer display of my horsemanship, perhaps I'd challenge you to a joust?"

Sisserou snorted, her laughter concealed with an unyieldingly unhappy façade, "My lord, there is a _stark_ difference between good horsemanship and handling a lance. _Jousting_ tests the latter ability."

"In handling a lance, I could think of more than just jousting that test one's ability." Casavir murmured playfully to her.

"I'd not share those activities if I were you, my lord." She replied, nodding over her shoulder. Echoed hoof beats grew louder, and a cloud of trail dust gave way to a palomino stallion mounted by an equally blonde knight. Halting his steed in a flurry of hooves behind Sisserou, the knight lifted his chin and brushed dirt from his chain mail greaves, a quiet disdain tainting the honey-brown of his eyes.

To be sure, more than his eyes were tainted. Time tarnished the knight Nevalle more than it had his comrade Casavir. Sentenced by Tyr to a decade of battling demons in the perilous Abyss as a Knight of the Chalice, Nevalle was scarred, gnarled, aged, and drained of faith. Serving Neverwinter was no longer his duty and joy, but merely his employment, a means to afford potent wines and lavish courtesans. He was but a ghost of the man Casavir remembered, a shade of the Knight Captain's advisor and tireless defender of Nasher and his throne, all for consorting with demon kind. As staunchly opposed to fiends as Casavir was, part of him pitied the knight that had been utterly lost for loving Axarthys sin Saintrowe.

But demons trailed chaos and destruction in their wakes, and perhaps Nevalle should have known the outcome of his adoration for the tanar'ri emissary. The paladin turned his steed to face Nevalle's, nodding curtly towards the keep, "The Greycloaks have likely prepared our prisoner for transport to Neverwinter. We should make haste to the courtyard and retrieve him."

"Naturally the Greycloaks are too incompetent to escort a single prisoner to Neverwinter's dungeons." Nevalle huffed, pressing his heels into his horse's sides and riding between Sisserou and Casavir. Ahead of them, the knight jeered into the warm breeze, "Of course, I'm sure you were _thrilled_ when Nasher assigned us this menial task. In his dying months, the old sovereign figured this mission appropriate- a reminder of our humble origins as adventurers and soldiers of Neverwinter. What memories were had here!"

"And few of them happy." Sisserou uttered under her breath with a pang of bitterness.

Casavir sighed, growling lowly, "You mock me, Nevalle, but in meeting this prisoner I think you'll suffer a far greater misery in being here than I."

"We shall see, paladin." Nevalle challenged. As he cantered ahead, Sisserou threw back her head with a bitter sneer painted upon her plump lips, allowing her horse to straggle behind alongside Casavir's.

"You should have told him outright," she said, "That the prisoner is a baatezu."

Casavir shook his head, unable to suppress a smirk at his wife's relentless mockery. He responded, "My lady, you hardly have a paladin's mercy."

-

Neverwinter's plagues had always been physical. The city suffered the Wailing Death and the King of Shadows, and while certainly the consequences of sociopolitical strife had been vast and reconstruction of the city taxing, the Neverwintan people rebounded seamlessly. Their faith solidly placed in Tyr, there was little that could hinder Neverwinter's hopes, and even less that could arouse their fears. Reports of Luskan military advancements and uprisings of magical forces within Neverwinter's borders failed to frighten the people, and did only to test their extraordinary resolve; the largest of threats was received by Neverwinter with a hardened stare and a wary, yet unmoved, audience.

But Neverwinter was by no means a foolish kingdom, and while twelve years of peace and successful rebuilding of the city since the defeat of the King of Shadows had consoled concerns and silenced conspiracies, vigilance persisted. None knew what lurked in the shadows of Neverwinter, and it was that reality that tucked daggers in the belts of those who walked the city streets at night. The true threat that loomed, however, could be slaughtered with no blade, and at that time, crept through no alley of Neverwinter's quarters. Unseen, unheard, unknown, the threat was distant then. But the twisted depths of the demonic Abyss, it stirred.

Zelatar, the capital city of the demon prince Graz'zt's three-planed realm of Azzagrat, contained it. Nasher Alagondar, lord of Neverwinter, was dying, and Zelatar braced for the opportune moment to claim the city's throne. This time, there would be no plague or shadowy legions to face. This time, the enemy would manifest in diaphanous gowns and silken slippers. The Argent Palace, Graz'zt's citadel, buzzed with whispered rumors of the plot. From its tallest towers, the Dark Prince himself smiled in grim pleasure at the events prepared to unfold. At his side, gazing from behind the glass of the tower's windows, the Lamb stood poised.

"Loathe the Material Plane as you will, little Lamb," Graz'zt uttered to his emissary, "But if you can successfully secure the Neverwintan throne for the Abyss, I doubt _any_ devil will best your diplomatic capacity. The Nine Hells will envy and vie for your gift."

The Lamb, quietly displeased with her assignment, traversed the chamber and lifted her thin jaw, leering down at the city of Zelatar beneath her. Her snowy ringlets doused her shoulders in a soft, white froth, and her sleek ebony gown trailed like a fabric serpent behind her. She glanced behind herself momentarily, drawing her pink eyes away when her lord's acidic green orbs met her gaze. She whispered poisonously, "You waste my talents on an effortless assignment and helpless mortals."

"And _you_ are dangerously bold for criticizing where I assign my talents to." Graz'zt snapped, walking up behind her and setting his black hands across her shoulders. The Lamb was motionless.

"You mistake me for the feeble slave of Waterdeep I once was, commanding me as if a witch demanding of her petty familiars. _That_ is an oversight. I am the diplomat of the _entire_ Abyss to Baator, and belong not to you alone." She demanded.

"If only your ambition could be slaked." Graz'zt whispered.

"Ambition? I've obtained what I coveted. My name is sung in the halls of demons and devils alike." The Lamb hissed. Graz'zt smiled dismally, lifting a single curl of his underling's hair in his fingers.

"You are prideful, little Lamb, and not without cause; there are devils smitten with your charms. Surely no demon boasts that accomplishment." Graz'zt admitted with a quiet snort, "Perhaps you have been _too _successful."

She scoffed, "Devils pawing at my heels _hardly_ bolster my renown amongst demons."

"That is an unfortunate outlook, as all of the Abyss is enamored with your celebrity and vie for your infamy. In fact, if _anything_ tempers your success, it is not your devilish allies, but that final… _object_ binding you to mortal kind," Graz'zt remarked, purring in her ear,_ "_And that, little Lamb, is Rialnah."

The Lamb turned from the demon lord's grasp, gliding towards the staircase that spiraled to the depths of the Argent Palace. She paused at the entry to the stairwell, the stormy skin of her cheek being all that was visible of her angered face. She swore, "After I have completed this assignment, you shall have a challenge in subduing my clout in the Lower Planes."

As her heels clicked against the marble of the staircase, Graz'zt could not suppress the amused laughter that escaped his depraved smile. Few of his wayward servants lived to serve him for long, but he never denied himself that Axarthys sin Saintrowe, a princess amongst demons, was worth every hindrance she saddled him with.

-

"I can't see why Nasher would chance it."

"The Lord's Alliance."

"You mean to say, Waterdeep. Anytime it's the Lord's Alliance-"

"-It's a euphemism for Neverwinter serving the Masked Lords on hand, foot, and bended knee. Yes, that's the reason. And chancing it? Risk is never a factor in missions concerning Waterdeep."

"But _this_-"

"We've handled Waterdeep's demons before. Calm down."

"_Fools_."

The two Greycloak guards jumped, spinning round with their lances clutched to their chests. Deep in the cavernous dungeons of Crossroad Keep, their prisoner's brooding voice echoed through the labyrinth of stone cells and corridors like steel clanking against iron cell bars. Seated on a stone at the back of his cage, he hunched over with his elbows positioned over his knees. His orange eyes shone like dim candles from beneath his black brows.

"I haven't decided what disgusts me more," he uttered lowly, "Mortal ignorance of the Lower Planes and its denizens or delusions that Neverwinter could seriously contain a devil of my station."

"It speaks," one guard quipped. The other tapped his lance on the cell bars.

"It can speak all it wants," He warned, "but it's not escaping, not on my shift, and so it can talk all it pleases. Neverwinter is well equipped to deal with fiends."

The devil didn't laugh, and no delight with human naivety plastered a grin on his devilish face. He scoffed bitterly, "Surely if Waterdeep cannot bind me, _Neverwinter _will."

"Neverwinter is a perfectly capable state, demon!" a guard snapped, "We have battled your ilk before, and we've gambled our own lives and safety in conflicts with the Hells. If we all but repeat history, we're going to succeed again."

"That is hardly the impression you shared with your colleague moments ago. Yes, I overheard. You _are _aware that I have ears, don't you?" The devil inquired sourly. Both guards glanced at one another, and the fearful of the two winced as his associate smashed the flat base of his lance into the stone floor, rebuking him for sharing Neverwinter's iniquities with a devil.

"Can't you ever pipe down?!"

"Well, you answered me, didn't you?"

"I tried to shut you up and _told _you to stop worrying, but _no_!"

As they chattered on, the devil sighed despairingly and sunk back into his seat, leaning the back of his head against the damp, cold walls of his cell. His horns curved back and over his head, and their pointed grey tips rapped against a wall's surface when he settled deeper into his seat. Absanoch Shaddonhale had faithfully served his lord Asmodeus since the inception of the Nine Hells itself, and never in all those eons had he been assigned to such a ridiculous task as a political mission. He'd led devils into the Blood War against demons, slain thousands of the fiends themselves; surely his duty was war! Absanoch was an assassin and captain by trade, not a diplomat.

And if murdering Waterdhavians in broad daylight of the most populated port cities and fleeing to Neverwinter was Asmodeus's definition of a diplomatic rendezvous, Absanoch hoped politics were left to politicians, or better, to demons. Senseless killing was more in the _demonic_ style. But Absanoch admitted his task was not entirely without purpose, and understood his meaningless atrocities as part of his lord's intricate plan. He realized how the lowliest of his actions- or inactions inside his cell, as it were- led to a much grander scheme. Not that his guards needed to know that- they believed him merely a criminal to be deported to Waterdeep from Neverwinter. Besides, even if Absanoch revealed a sliver of his plan, it would take excessive explanation.

Mortals. Everything had to be simplified for them.

The squabbling guards were obvious examples of the trend. Absanoch groaned as they carried on, snapping and wailing at one another long enough for the devil to drown out the noise in his own mind. He began to lull into a bored slumber, but was soon awakened by a platoon of men rattling down into the dungeons, their armor clanging. His eyes tenuously closed, he listened intently. The guards stopped bickering, and a few words were exchanged between them. Commonplace enough, until the devil overheard, "Three of the Nine were sent, including the captain. It is but a matter of transporting the prisoner to his horse."

"None of the Greycloaks from Neverwinter were sent?" One guard asked.

"Nay, and with good reason- Nevalle and his knights are capable, and a small party draws less unwanted attention from the superstitious."

_Nevalle_. Absanoch parted his eyes, their orange sparkling ferociously. Fiends knew the Knight of the Chalice well, and not purely for his ten years' spent in the order's service. For Axarthys sin Saintrowe was adored of all demons, and even amongst devils, her name had been whispered in numerous diabolical courts. The knight's dalliance with her Ladyship Emissary was legendary amongst upper fiends. That hardly pleased Absanoch.

"Is he bound, then?" one soldier inquired, and nodded towards the cell for the guard to retrieve his prisoner. The lock on the devil's cage clicked, and the door creaked. Absanoch stood, arms extended towards his captors. His irons were still in place.

"Well behaved, eh? That's the lawfulness in you. _Devils_." The guard snorted, clipping a chain to the cuffs and drawing Absanoch from the cell's depths into the dungeon hallway. Packed between the halved platoon, with his prison guards at his sides, Absanoch grunted discontentedly at the spectacle. Guided out of the spiraling corridors with human and lizardfolk prisoners clawing at the passerby, the devil was hurried out into the grey afternoon. Squinting as the transition from indoor light to outdoor sunshine softened his vision, Absanoch saw three knights, cloaked in blue and plated in armor, awaiting him with a spare horse beside them.

"You are blessed to have been given a horse by the Keep. Now must we hoist you atop your steed, fiend, or shall you retain whatever dignity the Hells have spared you and mount unguarded?" a knight shouted. It was a woman, with emerald eyes and hair black as coal. She would have been quite beautiful, if it were not for the halo of her paladin's holy aura. It was invisible to all but Absanoch, who saw the divinity shedding light over her brow. The devil refused to honor the paladin with a response. He instead brushed his guards aside and ventured beyond the second paladin towards the blonde knight. Absanoch cast his eyes to the man, locking him in a lasting stare.

"There is much I would tell a Knight of the Chalice, famed Nevalle of the Nine. But I hold my tongue, aside from this," the devil coldly announced, "Her Ladyship Emissary does not mourn the loss of you at her side."

Absanoch turned to mount his horse, but felt the frosty steel of a longsword settled on the base of his neck. Nevalle snapped from behind him, clear astonishment and rage and contradictory enthusiasm, "And what would a devil know of a demon's sentiments?"

The devil walked from the knight silent, swinging his bound hands about the pommel of his saddle and lifting himself into the seat. Sisserou, who held the reins of his steed, tugged and cantered with Absanoch in tow. There was no exchange of goodbyes between the knights and the Greycloaks stationed at Crossroad Keep, and all that was shared between them in that departure was the fear that, once more, Neverwinter could feel the wrath of the Lower Planes.

-

When Casavir found Nevalle crouched behind a tree, far from the warmth of the fire and the bedrolls of the camp, he sighed disappointedly. The road to Neverwinter was noticeably long, and Casavir hadn't wanted to stop for the night, but the falling sun dictated otherwise. The paladin feared that any more time spent from the city with a devil in tow would heighten the risk of the assignment, or worse, wear on Nevalle's parchment-thin redemption. The paladin's fear was realized. His captain was carving a succubus from a fallen branch, digging his dagger crookedly into the wood. The pointed wings expanded about the figure like a dragon's, menacingly shading the womanly face half-covered in loose shavings.

"It is a cold night, even for the Neverwinter Woods." Casavir said. Nevalle continued to carve, head bowed towards the statuette.

"Then perhaps it is best you bed Sisserou, lest your beloved wife freeze to death." The knight spat. Casavir approached Nevalle and sat beside his confidant, arms casually slung over his knees. He feared this conversation, and the moment fell so quickly upon him that the paladin was at a loss for speech for a few moments. The scraping of metal against wood was all that was audible, until Casavir at last gathered his argument.

He refused to allow Nevalle to slip back into evil's talons.

"You've redeemed yourself entirely, Nevalle. To turn from Neverwinter simply because one fiend crossed your path would be to damn yourself all over again." Casavir advised, shaking his head, "I know you wish to hear none of this. Yet if anyone is fit to tell you, it is I. I _know _what a second chance means. I betrayed Neverwinter, and believed that I'd never serve the city for the rest of my days. I thought the whole political system wrong, and when Lord Nasher extended the mantle of the Nine to me, I thought him a fool. I was a servant to the people, not the state, and certainly not a subordinate to Nasher. But his offer forced me to recognize that denying my regret for betraying Neverwinter, and stubbornly insisting that Neverwinter was a flawed institution, was merely a refusal to accept the truth. I would have never served Neverwinter at all had I not loved her, and so I joined the Nine, and found peace."

"What do you want, Casavir? Praise?" Nevalle hissed.

"No. I only wish to tell you that you have a similar choice as I did. You may either allow meeting this devil to inspire your duty to Neverwinter, or continue to believe in your damnation. Don't be as stubborn as I was. Old Owl Well could have easily been my grave." Casavir replied, "You cannot deny that you love your city."

Nevalle groaned and tossed the carving into the forest, wringing the hilt of his dagger in frustration.

"Leave me. You wouldn't want Sissy to die from the cold," he growled as he stood from his seat, spitting, "That's how _she_ suffers still. It's a horrible affliction. Your skin runs blue, your words slur, and your thoughts lose their clarity. But unlike your cherished wife, I can't _ever _soothe away the cold for _her_, and instead of dying from it, she _endures _it every passing day."

"Axarthys's curse is-"

"What? _Deserved_?" Nevalle shouted.

"_No_," Casavir sternly responded, "You have far more pressing matters to concern over, including your loyalty to your order. Axarthys is a thing of the past, and she is none of your concern."

"Then whose concern is she, Casavir? Tyr's? Or is she the concern of whatever god that would condone her misery, purely because she is a demon?"

"Nevalle, the fiend prisoner _himself_ said she no longer cared for you." Casavir rejoined.

"And who is a devil to speak of demons he does not know?" Nevalle retorted. He marched off towards the camp before Casavir could utter a reply, and the paladin released a long breath from his lungs reserved for his absent response. Casavir worried for Nevalle; he'd been in the same position years before, and hoped his captain would not falter as he almost had. Nasher had granted Nevalle his former position as Captain of the Nine back when he returned from fulfilled Tyr's penance, but Casavir doubted Nasher's leniency if Nevalle fell a second time. The knight's world was dangerously close to unraveling yet again.

Sadly there was little the paladin could say to sway the knight's decision to ignore her Ladyship Emissary. If a devil had to all but whisper Axarthys's name for Nevalle to doubt his loyalty to Neverwinter, Casavir knew that his words were entirely empty. Twelve years of waiting for his love had only intensified Nevalle's response to any sign of Axarthys's presence. It was a disquieting notion. How far would the knight fall for her?

Casavir arose to his feet and walked towards the firelight, its heat barely able to stave off the chill of his dread.

-

Blacklake swarmed with life, its sweeping stone pathways buzzing like a flourishing hive. From the Neverwinter wood into the city, the journey lasted a half-day. The afternoon sun sparkled on the waters coursing through the city, highlighting the pulsating veins of what fed the city's trade routes and merchants. As three of the Nine galloped into town, the nobles of Blacklake and the businessmen lining the plazas hardly noticed the devilish prisoner. They cheered emphatically for the return of their beloved knights. Casavir and Nevalle, accustomed to the spectacle, nodding infrequently to the passerby. Fame hadn't tainted their focus on the mission at hand.

Sisserou, however, never tired of her people's enthusiasm. Her veneer of cynicism faded as she grinned radiantly, waving excitedly and laughing as noble and urchin children alike ran alongside her horse. Though the prisoner followed her closely in tow, not even a fiend's evil aura could have taken from her the happiness of serving Neverwintans. As the band of knights ascended the hill towards Castle Never, Casavir turned his chin over his shoulder to capture a glance of his wife. She embodied all that he meant to be as a paladin. He considered, _Save for the sarcasm_.

The knights dismounted with their captive, leading him by the irons into the castle. He'd acted disturbingly well for the passage to Neverwinter, and while it seemed Nevalle and Sisserou were blasé about the devil's placidity, Casavir knew they shared his sentiment; no devil would submit to enemy authorities easily without a cause. Noting this silently, Casavir trailed behind his wife and Nevalle as the knights lit their torches and escorted the fiend into the damp pits of the city's dungeons. The paladin's hand strayed over his mace, cautious as the devil was led to the farthest reaches of the cells and deposited into his iron cage. Unequivocally silent, the devil allowed his manacles to be removed, entering the cell of his own violation. As the bars locked into place, Casavir released his grasp on his mace, eased. Under the watch of the Royal Guard, the devil's odds of escape were small.

His duty complete, Casavir's vigilance and concerns numbed with visions of what dinner awaited him at home, and with images of his son racing into the estate house eager to greet his parents. He and Sisserou parted the castle to their horses outside, Nevalle departing to report to Lord Nasher. For them, the devil's case pended until the next day's summons to court.

But fiends did not rest, and elaborate plots long devised by hellish overlords began to unravel. As the knights of Neverwinter returned to the temporary safety of their homes, the Abyss opened its ravenous jaws to the Material Plane.

-

The docks brimmed with chestnut-colored ships emblazoned with a myriad of sails, boasting an incredible variety of nations harbored at the city's port. From his dockside tavern, Duncan Farlong watched the magnificent vessels unloading crates of worldly goods. He buffed the bar top hastily, anticipating new patrons as they flooded in from the recently anchored ships. Usually, an influx of new vessels meant a flurry of customers seeking fresh ales and cold beer. And yet as the boats were secured to the docks and their sailors discharged from the decks, the tavern door hardly rattled in its hinges. Curious, Duncan slung his rag over the counter and stomped over to the entry, stepping out into the early evening air.

His eyes immediately focused on a grey craft with its scarlet sails unfurled. In his many years as a barkeep in the Docks District, he'd never once gazed upon such a horrifyingly beautiful vessel. Its unmarked sails bore no indication of its country of origin, and its deck seemed barren of sailors. Greycloaks descended on the ship in a thick cluster, their swords drawn. Intrigue drew Duncan from his tavern, and he approached the ship. Immediately, he witnessed the disturbance on the docks.

From the ship's underbelly, a massive black stallion charged onto the deck, rearing at the guards. His front hooves clipped the helmets of the first men in the squadron, and the Greycloaks recoiled back a number of steps. When the horse's feet all met the ground, the deafening stomp alerted the guards- and Duncan- to a woman entirely swathed in ebony gossamer, perched atop the beast. Ethereal and shadowy, her robe was like smoke draped over her fragile form. She cast back her hood, and her snowy locks instantly illuminated her grey face amongst the black sea of her garb. Terrifying eyes, their pink irises slit with reptilian pupils, piercingly centered on the guards.

"I am the ambassador of Zelatar, capital of the Abyssal kingdom of Azzagrat," she announced. Her melodic voice dripped with bitter sweetness, and echoed the cruelty of her home plane. She declared, "But though I serve the dark prince Graz'zt, I arrive here of personal volition. I am her Ladyship Emissary Axarthys sin Saintrowe, and I demand escort to the palace of Lord Nasher Alagondar, so that the future ruler of Neverwinter is properly secured as Rialnah sin Saintrowe, my child and daughter of Captain Nevalle of the Nine."

From behind her mother, a demoness with blonde ringlets encircling her rosy horns peered. Her childish smile reflected the same scheming brutality as her mother's stern frown embodied.

Duncan shook his head, eyes wide with panic. He uttered, "_No, Tyr, no._"

Neverwinter suffered the Lamb once before. That time, it had been crippling to Neverwinter's sense of security, and the demonic armies abrasive to the walls that had long sheltered the city's people from all brands of outsiders. Now the very crown of the city was at the claws of demon kind. If what her Ladyship spoke was true, if there was a child they shared- _no_. He could not believe. Those old enough to recall the Lamb knew the reality of what transpired there, in that moment. Duncan dashed to his tavern. He could not bear to watch the Greycloaks lead her to Nasher's throne.

-

Rodric imagined that his blade was merely an extension of his arm, and with eyes dutifully closed, sensed the weight of its hilt in his hand. It was heavier than he had originally thought, as if holding the blade motionless had burdened it with excess weight not apparent when the weapon was in mid-strike, soaring through the air. Rodric slashed the air in a semicircle around his torso, satisfied with the whoosh of the weapon's tip as it sliced through the oncoming breeze. The waist-high field grasses rustled around him as he copied the maneuvers his father practiced with his own sword. Rodric's sword swung upwards, then down, and shaped into the pattern of an invisible _X_ as it returned to its original horizontal position.

Smiling with incredible approval of his swordsmanship, Rodric leapt forward at an imaginary enemy. He lifted his right foot high, arching it so he could land in a perfect lunge formation. Instead, he faltered halfway and stumbled to the ground ungracefully. Crumpled in the field grass, Rodric squealed with amusement at his folly. He was six years old and determined to fight like his father, but lying there hidden in the grass alongside his wooden sword, watching the clouds pass over the cerulean sky, was sometimes more gratifying than swordplay and growing up to fill a paladin's boots.

The clouds were darkening into night, and Rodric watched as the brightest clouds coalesced over the city of Neverwinter, a fair distance from his family's estate. He'd only traveled there on a handful of occasions, but simply seeing the city walls perched on the horizon was enough to evoke memories of the bustling streets, the merchant ships at dock, and the blue stone corridors of Nasher's palace. Rodric's most potent memory was the knights, in their glittery chain mail and sparkling full plate suits. As two horses trotted towards the boy's home, Rodric grinned. His own knights had returned.

Springing to his feet, toy sword clutched in his palm, he sprinted towards the red stone manor at the far end of the field. Skipping up the veranda that overlooked the estate property and hopping through the opened, double doors into the foyer, Rodric dropped his weapon on the tiled floors and lunged into his mother's arms. Still half-equipped in her knightly regalia, she sunk as the extra weight clung to her neck. Exhausted from her journey, she nevertheless embraced her son with utter joy, swinging him in her arms and setting his feet upon the floor, kneeling in front of him.

"I have an exciting tale to tell tonight, Rodric," she announced.

"But first, someone needs to wash the grass and dirt from under their fingers." His father instructed, "For though they are warriors and face the elements in their work, no fine knight appears at dinner with grime under their nails."

"Ay!" Rodric yelped in agreement, bounding up the foyer stairs and into the keeping of his maid. As his footsteps pattered across the wooden halls above, the boy's mother tossed a mischievously cruel glare at her husband.

"Casavir, I think the boy may confuse you for his mother." She noted.

"Perhaps that is a sign that you are slacking in your duties." He joked lightly, piling the last pieces of his plate mail on the ground before he took Sisserou in his arms, pecking her nose. She returned his affection with a tender sweeping of her lips against his, lowering her forehead under his chin with a lengthy, worn sigh.

"Time spent in the company of devils is draining for a paladin!" she exclaimed. She expected a chuckle from her husband, and when he could only sadly grin at her, Sisserou frowned.

Casavir uttered, "I think Nevalle's company is far more draining than that of devils."

"What do you mean?"

"That devil, he spoke of her Ladyship Emissary, Axarthys sin Saintrowe. It upset him, obviously, and he acts as if he'd pursue her all over again." Casavir explained. Sisserou shrugged nonchalantly.

"I lived in Luskan when Axarthys overran Neverwinter with her demonic legions, and I was but a child then. There is little I have to offer in condolence, my darling, except the words of a fellow paladin. Devils are deceivers, and speak of many things that could lead to the damnation of souls. Perhaps these things are lies, perhaps they are true. But they are words, and _only_ words. Nevalle will know this in time." Sisserou assured.

A shuffling of towels and clothes upstairs meant the knights' son would soon stampede down the staircase, eager for an account of his parents' journey. Surely enough, the boy charged into the foyer, his maid chasing him with a towel and calling to dry the boy's scruffy, damp locks.

"Our worries shall have to wait, my love. Rodric will like to know of your tales." Casavir gently smiled. Sisserou agreed, if only in the closure apparent in her emerald eyes, and she caught her son in her arms as he thundered down the steps. Carting him to the dining hall, her husband followed, courteously seating his wife before he sat across from her and his son.

The family uttered dedicated thanks to Tyr before they hungrily lifted their utensils to their platters of duck meat. Casavir's manners faded; he certainly wasn't concerned with his posture or what fork to employ when he had a grown man's appetite to satiate. Sisserou, a mouthful of meat between her teeth, had difficulty not choking as her husband and son gorged their food. Forcibly swallowing, she chuckled mutedly. Rodric was a mirror of his father, gobbling his dinner as if it would disappear on him.

"He eats like _you_ do, Casavir." She observed.

Casavir raised a brow, "He eats like a man, which is what he's growing up to be."

"He eats _rudely_," Sisserou smirked, nodding to her son as he giggled between bites, "Look at him. You insist he scrubs his nails before he eats, but not that he eats with some semblance of etiquette? For shame! What sort of knight shall he make?"

"A hungry one!" Rodric victoriously announced. Sisserou tilted her head back, releasing a irrepressible laugh.

"Ah, I see. The Starved Knight. What an unfortunate and well-deserved title _that_ shall be!" Sisserou suddenly lowered her voice, a playful glitter in her eye, "So be it. Bear your knightly title proudly, my dear. But I advise you, my Rodric, not to eat like a pig should Sir Nevalle every pay us a visit. Or else, whack! He'll lop off your head! And that shall be the end of things for you."

"Sisserou!" Casavir rebuked. His wife pursued her tale nonetheless.

"Sir Nevalle fancies his manners over his swordplay, Rodric. That is because he's not very good with swords. But if you have poor manners, oh, he'll get you! He doesn't need a sword to knock your head off your neck!"

"You're going to give him nightmares." Casavir warned.

"Is Sir Nevalle the boogie man?" Rodric quivered. Sisserou nodded.

"Oh, yes. Yes, he's terrifying."

"_Sisserou!_" Casavir pleaded. She pursed her lips, shuffling Rodric from the table with a sweep of her hands.

"Now, now, Rodric," she cooed, "You've finished your meal, and I have quite the tale to share before you go to sleep. Get along upstairs and into bed, and I'll tell you the whole story, beginning to end, and every adventure in between. How does that sound?"

Rodric bobbed his head in agreement, cheering as he skipped into the hall, proclaiming, "Hungry Knight, Hungry Knight, slaying the Nevalle boogie! Dead, dead, dead!"

When Sisserou returned to her seat at the table, Casavir muttered, "Regardless of the number of years spent married to you, I can never completely accept that you are the most horribly behaved paladin I've known."

"What _ever _do you mean?" She batted her eyelashes mischievously.

"Nevalle as the monster-under-the-bed? Was that a creative way to ostracize our dear captain for his recent inequities?" Casavir asked. Sisserou momentarily glanced over her shoulder, her cocked chin permitting the light of the room to underscore her most flirtatious, attractive features.

"Aren't all men who dally with demons monsters, my darling?" She murmured.

"Perhaps _I _am best suited to answer that, Sisserou."

Sisserou shuddered, knocking her chair aside as she stood quickly to attention, "Sir Nevalle. We surely weren't expecting you."

Unarmored and draped in the crimson folds of a velvet cloak, Nevalle leaned in the door frame of the dining hall. His austerely chiseled features and dimly blonde hair, weathered with dank frosty highlights, glowed with unnerving emotional emptiness. He gradually and inaudibly slipped into the room, sitting against the tabletop with his back to Casavir.

"Why have you come, captain?" Casavir hardheartedly asked.

Nevalle scoffed softly, "You must not have heard me enter. I knocked on your door for quite some time before one of the servants greeted me. Should Neverwinter ever be in dire need of you, and I come to inform you of the city's desperation, you should be _considerably_ swifter to permit me entry to your home."

"Then that had best be _exactly _the reason for your visit, Nevalle." Sisserou spat. When the room grew utterly soundless with response, Casavir leapt to his feet, pounding his fists against the table. The wood rattled, causing Nevalle to shift his weight from it and into a seat across from Sisserou.

"If Neverwinter is in danger, out with it, Nevalle! Do not delay our aid simply for your acrimony!" Casavir reprimanded. The blonde knight's cheeks rose with a twisted, haunted smile.

"Axarthys sin Saintrowe has returned to Neverwinter," he lowly whispered, "And she has laid claim on Nasher Alagondar's throne."

"That is wholly ridiculous." Casavir bluntly replied.

"Lord Nasher is wasting away, Casavir. We all know this to be true." Sisserou murmured.

"And who shall succeed him?" Casavir snapped.

"Why, Rialnah sin Saintrowe," Nevalle mumbled, "_My_ daughter."

"Nevalle…" Casavir breathed. The paladin rested his palms over his forehead. He collapsed back into his chair, descending into the plush tapestry of its cushions in shocked, sudden defeat. He clamored for words, but he knew that Nasher had secretly contracted his order of succession, and that it stated, in its frankness, that the eldest child of Nasher's knights of the Nine would be heir to the crown. All along, the knights had accepted this child to be Rodric, and his viziers as Casavir and Sisserou. And now, by very virtue of its simplicity, Nasher's will assured the throne to a half-fiend, the daughter of Neverwinter's greatest single demonic adversary and the child of one its questionable knights. Casavir, crushed, freed his forehead of his grip. His arms fell limp at his sides.

The paladin cried out, "_Nevalle, what have you done_?"


	2. Triptych II

**The Black Canary: Triptych Two**

Nasher Alagondar smelled decay on the air, and though he lacked a druid's earthly acuity, knew that it wasn't the scent of his own bodily decomposition. The odor was hardly physical. Unlike the sickly coughs and infectious boils that plagued the lord's body, this smell was transparent, perhaps more of an aura than an aroma. Even in his weakened condition, Nasher sensed his kingdom rotting, physically and perhaps spiritually.

And so when Sir Darmon entered Nasher's quarters late that evening with grave sorrow in his eyes, Nasher feared his sentiments had been realized. Long a knight of the Nine, Darmon frequently visited his lord, with reports of courtly intrigue and domestic trials. But there was always a devious smile in his eyes when he entered his lord's chambers, and an amiability present warm enough to stave off the bleakness of Nasher's sickened state. The terror and sadness in the knight's eyes confirmed his lord's fears.

Darmon knelt beside his lord's bed, head bowed. He trembled, "My lord, the Lamb has returned to Neverwinter with the child of our Captain. We must summon the Nine."

-

Nine knights gathered, mantles as blue as the ungodly hour of the night present outside the marble walls of Castle Never. Dawn lingered in the horizon, an emerging light amidst the bottomless sea of blues, black, and the white scars of the stars plastered across the empyrean dome. Eyes dreary from sleeplessness and shoulders slumped with anguish, the Nine stood in a semicircle around Nasher like a lifeless assembly of the undead. Heaving gutturally, Nasher stooped in his throne. He peered out from beneath his mountainous fur capes like a withering beast.

Though disease had long robbed Nasher of his humanity, even in the worst of circumstances and after hours of strenuous work, a solid enthusiasm pervaded the atmosphere of court. No task was too challenging, no subject daunting to cover, even though scores of celebrated knights had fallen from their ranks in battle. But that night, the world unraveled, and there the Nine after decades of strength were rendered feeble in the presence of a demon.

Axarthys sin Saintrowe slithered into the throne room, languid and deliberate in her steps. An inexplicable mist shrouded her, and the floor she walked on clattered, as if demonic claws pawed at the ground around her. Her body poured in diaphanous black silks, her jaw draped with a sheer veil, she like a specter floated towards Nasher and the Nine. It was clear that she'd been cursed with hypothermia; her flesh was cyanotic along the framework of her face and shoulders, as if to accentuate her frail form with strokes of watercolor blue. The pink tattoos marring her cheeks framed the fire in her rosy, serpentine eyes. She coiled her hand into the blonde curls of the horned child at her side, raising her chin triumphantly.

"I _trust_ no introductions are needed." Casavir announced.

"Since last I strode these halls, I have ascended from the ranks of a lowly Waterdhavian emissary to Graz'zt's Ambassador to the Planes and envoy of Zelatar." Axarthys unwaveringly informed, her lips pressed into a stern line, "No longer am I the nightmare within the hearts of mortals, but the spirit that haunts them in the consciousness of daylight and in the sanctity of their homes. Do _not_ presume I appear to you now with the scant prestige I boasted over a decade ago."

Her spidery hand cast the daughter from her side, sending the girl shuffling behind a pillar. The child's eyes shimmered chocolate brown in the shadows. Axarthys continued to approach, pacing the semicircle in front of the Nine. As she passed them, a faint aroma of frankincense pervaded the air. She halted before the throne, but her gaze did not meet Nasher's. She stared at Nevalle unblinkingly, proclaiming, "I rarely sully my hands with the mortal politics of this plane, but the present matter is exceedingly personal."

"Her Ladyship Emissary has claimed the throne for her daughter and child of Captain Nevalle, Rialnah sin Saintrowe," Sisserou snapped in clarification, "The Nine have gathered to review her claims and, if necessary, put them to a trial of the people."

Axarthys scoffed, continuing to pace gradually about the room, "The declaration of succession to the throne of Neverwinter states simply that the eldest child of one of the city's Knights of the Nine is sole heir to the crown. Lord Nasher believed naming an heir outright was undiplomatic, and considered his declaration a means to safely- and diplomatically- assure the throne to Rodric, the son of knight Casavir."

"And by what diabolical means did you employ to discover my son, demon?" Sisserou defensively spat.

"I would _think_ a paladin is aware of a demon's capacity for telepathy," Axarthys replied harshly, glowering as she noted, "Need I employ those talents and share your rather dubious past with the Nine present, knight, or will you temper your theatrics and allow this conference to continue?"

Casavir reached for his wife's hand, entwining his palm with hers and squeezing assuringly. Sisserou bowed her chin, lips forcibly shut. Her husband explained to the court, calmly and poignantly, "The declaration of succession was penned and enacted two years after the birth of my son, Rodric. At this time, Rodric was the intended heir specified by the stipulation of the document, which was that he was the eldest child of a Nine knight. Captain Nevalle, however, was not actively in the service of the Nine when the declaration was made official. This would exempt his daughter, though older than Rodric, from the crown of Neverwinter."

"There is no such amendment described in the document," Axarthys countered swiftly, "Regardless of when the declaration was ratified, it states _only _that the heir is the eldest child of the Nine, which is Rialnah. Additionally, to avoid the scandal of handpicking a successor in a progressively diplomatic state, the declaration was _deliberately_ written without specifying Rodric as heir. If that _was_ the intent, as it seems Neverwinter insinuates is, then little distinguishes this government from the corrupted regimes of less honorable societies. Should you contest _either_ of these arguments, you may reference the declaration, of which copies are available in Blacklake's library."

Casavir grinded his teeth. Axarthys's words rang as true as if spoken by a priest of Tyr; the paladin had reviewed the declaration himself, and understood Nasher sought to be cryptic when naming Rodric as his successor. But to Casavir's fortune, Darmon's voice rang out, "And how are we certain that this child is Sir Nevalle's? Demons are _notorious_ for their promiscuity."

Laughter warmed the room, and suddenly the chill of defeat softened from the air. Axarthys's shoulders tensed and the features of her face painted the picture of utter distaste. As the chuckles abated, the demon fell silent as a counter argument brewed in her mind. Fleetingly victorious, Sisserou flashed a sharp smile to her husband, who could only sigh with respite. Footsteps shattered the calm, and Casavir's gaze shot upwards. Nevalle descended the dais from Nasher's throne and plunged to his knees before Axarthys, pleading, "My Ladyship Emissary, Ambassador of Zelatar, Axarthys, my Lamb, swear to me that it is my blood that courses through her veins, and however alone I am, I will invest all my faith in your word."

"_Nevalle_." Casavir threateningly called, "Do _not_ do this."

"And so this council is to withhold the veracity of her Ladyship's claim?" Nevalle shouted over his shoulder, smolderingly scathing, "You preach morality to me, paladin, when _you_ cannot even value truth yourself."

"If you jeopardize Neverwinter's throne, Nevalle, only Tyr himself will be able to stay my hand from killing you," Sisserou declared.

"Are you so desperate to see your son on the throne, _Luskan_?" Nevalle growled.

"Silence, Captain." Axarthys mellifluously called. Nevalle sunk to his elbows before her, his forehead resting on the marble floor. The Lamb motioned with her hand, beckoning her daughter from the darkness. The girl emerged, floating across the floor in a wisp of grey robes. She settled onto the ground, lifting Nevalle's chin with a thin, delicate finger. He raised his eyes to her, and immediately felt as he had glanced into a mirror- her _eyes_, they were his eyes, and the blondeness of her curls was undeniably the same shade as his own hair. Even the curve of her cheeks reflected his.

"Can you deny her, Captain?" Axarthys asked. When the knight shook his head wordlessly, mouth agape, the demon smiled, "She is unmistakably his. Should any doubt remain, perhaps it is best Casavir assure you that last I graced Neverwinter, it was _he_ that saw me depart for the Abyss in knowledge I was with child."

"You knew?" Sisserou whispered. Casavir nodded remorsefully.

"I was present when Tyr judged Nevalle and sentenced him to ten years' servitude as a Knight of the Chalice, for consorting and falling in love with Axarthys sin Saintrowe. It was there that Tyr revealed she was with child, and banished her to the Abyss. But demonic children rarely survive birth, and even more rarely past early childhood. I was right to believe the child had died." Casavir admitted to the Nine.

"And you felt the same?" Darmon asked Nevalle.

"Yes," he murmured, "It was the hopelessness of losing my child that drove me to the despair I have suffered in the past twelve years. I know now that Tyr answered what prayers I uttered years ago."

"And because Tyr has heeded your pleas, a demon shall one day inhabit our throne." Sisserou muttered. No longer could she stand to watch Neverwinter bow in defeat to that demon, who in arrogance lifted her chin in victory as the arguments against her foundered. Sisserou wrapped her hand around her neckline, drawing a golden chain with an empty vial dangling from it. _Hope_, and the only shred of it remaining. She stepped down from the dais around Nasher, her cheek turned away from the woman as she voiced, "I will _not_ witness the downfall of my kingdom."

"Sisserou," Darmon pleaded gently. The paladin stopped, but she did not face him. The knight coerced, "Let Nasher grace us with his final decision before you depart."

Darmon knelt at Nasher's side, suggesting quietly, "Perhaps it is best that we specify the heir described in the declaration of succession at a later date. We must consider what has been said in this chamber, truths and opinions both, and assure that whatever our verdict is, it honors Tyr."

"Very well," Nasher rasped, "Declare a celebratory ball… of the announcement of Neverwinter's heir, tomorrow night."

"You have heard his decision," Darmon proclaimed, rising to his feet beside his lord and calling, "Captain Nevalle, permission to adjourn this conference of the Nine?"

"Granted." The knight distractedly responded, hunched at the patent heels of the Lamb. He remained there as the knights disbanded, their sea of blue tunics flooding the exit of the throne room. Darmon and Casavir escorted Nasher behind the knights, guiding the lord's taxed steps to the staircases winding up to the towers of Castle Never. The echoed whispers and footsteps of the Nine weakened, abandoning Nevalle and Axarthys to the lonely stillness of the throne room. Certain his comrades were far from earshot, Nevalle clamored to his feet, extending a hand to sweep the demon's white curls away from her cheek.

"Ten interminable years I spent traveling the Abyss, and in that time, though I encountered succubi and lilitu lovelier than any human could physically be, no creature that walks the planes compares to your beauty and charisma," he swore, "If you may only be mine through possession, then my soul is yours, Ladyship Emissary."

The Lamb gazed at him viciously, leaning close into his shoulder. Her forehead barely missed his neck as she brushed her fingers dangerously close to his lips. Her eyes shone, her lips parted invitingly as if she was moments from kissing him. He craved her, grappling for her embrace as his eyes filled with pained yearning. She was a cruel temptation, utterly tantalizing. She withdrew, spinning on her heels and towards the exit in a single, ethereal motion. The Lamb floated away from him, her foggy garb whisking behind her as if she were some ephemeral phantom. As further she drifted, his primal need for her intensified.

The demon uttered as she fleeted, "I have _already_ possessed you, my Captain."

-

It was cold. Sisserou's bones froze to the marrow, sending shivers down her neck and arms, into the digits of her hands. Materially, the air was quite tepid; no, the chill was spiritual, not physical. Though any mortal could sense that Axarthys's presence teemed with evil, the paladin experienced her nearness much more intensely. Behind the mask of the demon's perfume, Sisserou smelled burning flesh and sulfurous fumes. When the demon spoke, it was as if seven voices boomed from her lips. The amplification of dread felt in the entity's company by the paladin was unbearable. Standing alone in the castle's grand foyer, far from the demon, Sisserou was frozen to the core with the spirit's wickedness.

When Casavir jogged down the staircase after retiring Nasher to his quarters, Sisserou breathed with reprieve, sighing, "Oh, thank Tyr. I couldn't bear to wait any longer."

"Does my wife crave a warm bed and a few hours' time of much-deserved sleep?" He chuckled. Sisserou frowned at his lightheartedness, and Casavir's posture slackened. The paladin hugged his wife close, rubbing his nose against hers apologetically, "You know that pure laughter is a repellent of evil, my love."

"Casavir, I… I can't come home tonight," she distantly responded. She broke from his grip, drawing her cloak tightly around her neck, "I ask only for your trust in this matter. There is someone I must consult with before the celebration tomorrow."

He nodded solemnly, "Do what you must. But, Sisserou… if it concerns what happened tonight, know that I have faced her and her ilk before. I promise you will be safe in these coming days from whatever forces of the netherworld she summons to these halls."

"For that, my heart pumps a beat slower." She assured, turning to leave. Casavir caught her wrist, drawing her into a final embrace before she parted.

"My love," he whispered, "Never fear what prowls in Neverwinter's shadows."

-

Nevalle scoured the halls for Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Rapping and scratching noises inside the castle walls alerted him to her demonic presence, but as the sounds grew deafening and it seemed she was all but feet from him, the knight lost pursuit of her. Just as he wished a medium had accompanied him in his search, his fortunes changed. Shadows cast their darkness where no lights existed to cause them; windows hissed with a draft, though they were closed and their drapes remained motionless. The knight grinned with relief for the signs. In Axarthys's wake, the world was haunted, and Nevalle was determined to follow the spiritual, ghostly aura left by her transitory presence. As he rounded a corner of the hall, a sudden cacophony of otherworldly voices chattered in the air. The chorus ended with the faint snort of a pig, where no such animal resided.

It was a telltale characteristic of severe demonic manifestation, and for many a horrific sound. But to Nevalle, it was a godsend, a symphony to his ears. He trotted to the end of the hall, and was greeted with a cloud of white curls crowned with rosy horns, Rialnah's blonde locks visible behind her mother's shoulders. He called to the demon, "I have sought you in every crevice of this castle, and-."

"How did you track me?" She spat. It was hardly a greeting the knight expected, and he grimaced at his own methods.

"Mortals… can perceive your kind, in their own ways, and if they choose to listen." He confessed, "My lady, I only wished to address you in private. Twelve years of separation from you gorged a hole from my heart, and there is so much I would admit to you, so much I would weep to you."

"I am not here merely to converse with humans." She coldly replied. Nevalle shook his head, perplexed.

"But we share a daughter together." He murmured. Unexpectedly, Axarthys flared with anger. Her lips swelled with exasperated breaths, her teeth bared in frustrated agony. Door handles rattled loudly down the hall without cause, and the blue silk drapery on a nearby window tore, slinking limply to the carpeted floors into a crumpled heap. Brimstone puzzlingly wafted through the hall.

"You _cannot_ know the misery mortals condemn me to suffer!" Axarthys snarled, "I know what it is you seek- you, like _every mortal_, wishes to _bind_ me to your world, to ensnare me in summoning circles, in séances, in your bodies as some… possessing spirit, in the very fabric of those most terrible dreams that titillate your fearful excitement. I am _no one's_ poltergeist, human. In _my_ netherworld, I have uncovered power, prestige, and happiness- and I refuseto be bound to you, in _this_ damnable world, as nothing but a human's familiar."

The demon anticipated the human's departure at her proclamation. Her trembling hands inserted the key to her assigned chambers into the lock, but before she disengaged the door, Nevalle's surprisingly warm hands were around her waist. She gasped, shaking at the comfort her cold form felt in his arms. He hushed, "You are nothing but a woman to me, Axarthys."

"Nevalle…" She gasped as her chill ebbed from her body. The scratching inside the walls diminished.

"I spent ten years imprisoning and combating your kind. I've traveled with spiritualists, paladins, priests, exorcists. I realize that you are victim here amongst mortals. You will be hunted, and banished, or worse… held against your free will by mediums vying for your diabolical wisdom," he cooed, stroking her slender neck. Though her body felt fragile and frosty in his grasp, her power had undoubtedly grown. Nevalle tasted the horrific extent of her supernatural abilities as their bare flesh met. He repentantly purred in her ear, "I made a terrible mistake when I first fell in love with you. I believed that we had a future in Neverwinter, when you do not belong to this world. And when I crossed paths with a devil, not one day ago-"

"-You convened with a devil?" Axarthys breathed. Nevalle nodded, settling his head into the crook of her neck.

"He is a prisoner of the city, to be transported to Waterdeep. He told me that my name is whispered in your realm, and in his. You are a woman of renown in the netherworld, he said, and you wished nothing to do with me," the knight gnawed on the lobe of the demon's ear, invitingly muttering, "Perhaps that sentiment is true, and perhaps my hope that we may rekindle our love is foolish. I should never have sought to bind you to my world. But if nothing else, I will offer you warmth if you accompany me to my chambers."

"And what of my presence? Can even a seasoned knight brave the horrors of a demon, and claim still that in his eyes, she is but a woman?" She dared. He grinned morbidly, kissing the top vertebrae of her spine.

"There is little that bumps, clanks, and scratches in the night that frightens a Knight of the Chalice." He promised. Axarthys's tense torso loosened, and her chest folded partially over the knight's arms as she loosened and drooped with vague relief.

"I shall meet with you in your chambers, Nevalle, after I exchange my gown for more appropriate attire." She replied. Satisfied with her decision, the knight pressed his mouth to hers in a final seal of their tenuous, provisional relationship, and fled to his quarters to await their rendezvous. Axarthys removed the key from the lock and offered it to Rialnah. She instructed, "These chambers are yours alone, should you heed my demands. You overheard the knight, and know what you must report to our Lordship. Seek him, and inform him of the upcoming ceremony. Stipulate it is of the utmost importance that he attend, my child."

"I shall, my lady." Rialnah curtsied, tucking the key into the folds of her dress. She coasted down the hallway, her cape billowing behind her girlish form. Axarthys tugged at her black dress. Its straps shifted, and the satin lightened into sheer chiffon. Her clothing dematerialized into itself, her gown transformed into a sultry robe. She sunk her fingernail into her mouth, and stained her lips with the purplish red of her own blood. Pleased with her guise, she started down the opposite corridor, as the preternatural noises and phantom zephyrs haunted her steps towards the knight's chambers.

-

Tradesmen and customers alike slumbered, rendering Neverwinter's Merchant Quarter barren. Striped pavilions of outdoor vendors appeared as miniature, empty circus tents lining the grassy stretches of land between the stone causeways, devoid of their colorful goods. Sisserou's footsteps thundered in the silent vacancy of the place, and she tightened her hood. If demons lurked in the passageways of Castle Never, what horrors inhabited the Merchant Quarter?

The paladin spun down a winding alley and behind a brick storefront. She scoped the area for bystanders and onlookers, and satisfied that none occupied the vicinity, the paladin unclasped her golden necklace. She shook the chain, and a small vial fell into her palm. Shaking it, a green mist swirled from the emptiness of the glass. When the vial was uncorked, the green mist spilled forth and leaked into a steaming puddle on the ground. The paladin beseeched, "My brother, please hear me."

The green smoke rose from the grass, weaving into the translucent body of a vaporous figure. Dark robes formed from the ectoplasm, and he lifted his materialized face to the paladin. The green fog faded into the peach of his skin, but remained in the electric hue of his eyes. Scars marred his fiercely yet morbidly handsome face, and a red scarf tied round his head hid his maimed right eye from view. The man's chiseled cheeks and linear nose complemented the intellectually bright grin worn on his countenance, as he sniggered, "Ah, my little sister. Quite the odd hour to summon me, isn't it?"

"You can _hardly_ complain," she resentfully muttered, "The last time I called on your assistance was over two years ago."

"Mmm, when that _hezrou_ was accidentally summoned into a well in Blacklake. I'm still wondering how the beast _fit_ inside there, and why a noblewoman would dally in the Black Arts." He mused. Sisserou growled.

"_We_ are noble, Icarus, and _you_ study the dark arts." She reprimanded. Her brother sneered lightly, amused.

"_Please_, Sisserou. I am a procurer of knowledge, not some… hulking, brutish diabolical engine. If I were, I doubt Tyr would allow me to appear to you. Frankly, spearheading the plots and pursuits of the Black Cult of Amn is a prestigious career, and one unsullied by our, well, _questionable_ sources of information."

"You're attempting to sugarcoat the study of demons and exploitation of their arcane knowledge, to a _paladin of Tyr_, no less. Truly, brother, spare me the euphemisms. You summon demons, demand their knowledge, and collect items tainted by their evil. I know _full well_ what you do, and only want your opinions." Sisserou said. Icarus snorted, crossing his arms defiantly. He leaned against the brick wall behind them, unmoved by his sister's request.

"You damn me for my wisdom," he said, "And then beg me to share it. I cannot help that _I_ sought to harness demonic knowledge for the betterment of mages in and outside of Luskan, and that _you_ decided to smash all demonic things beneath your hammer in Tyr's name."

"But I battle with a longsword-"

"Well, _however_ you do what you do," he brushed her comment aside, "You've become quite self-righteous in the past years, ostensibly confident that outright vanquishing all evil is the only acceptable reaction _to_ evil. I'm not about to aid you, Sisserou, not this time. Until you've tempered your paladin's arrogance, I'll mind to my own. Goodbye, sister."

As his manifestation faded, Sisserou lunged for his arm, snatching it. Suddenly his form became solid and opaque again, and she pleaded, "Icarus, I am _desperate_ for your help. Axarthys sin Saintrowe has invaded the city, and claims that-"

"-The Lamb? Her Ladyship Emissary, Crown Ambassador of Graz'zt? In _Neverwinter_?! And you failed to tell me!" He exclaimed, grasping his sister by the shoulders, "Well, you could have _mentioned _that before you went on a paladin's rant of morality and conduct. Why would such a powerful demon grace the likes of the Material Plane, and the likes of _Neverwinter_, no less?"

"Listen, Icarus," she exasperatedly responded, "I have no time to divulge the story in full. I summarize when I say she has laid honest claim to the kingdom's throne, and at a ceremonial event tomorrow night, she will install her half-demon child as heir to the crown. I cannot risk banishing her, though such an act is well in the repertoire of a paladin. She is too close to Graz'zt, and I fear for my husband and son. I could not bear Graz'zt's vengeance upon them if I laid a hand on the demon."

Icarus weighed the situation, contesting, "You require exterior aid."

"Yes, entirely," Sisserou breathlessly replied, "We must find some just grounds upon which the demon and her spawn may be expelled from Neverwinter, or at worst, contact one capable of banishing the demons without the interference of the Neverwinter Nine. You are successful in your field, my brother, and-"

"I cannot help you," he frowned, "Though I'd easily sell my soul for the opportunity to commune with the Lamb, I have not abandoned our home city. Luskan ever has my sympathies, and its mages have my humble partnership. Neverwinter would not permit my help, merely on principle. However, there are followers of the Black Cult of Amn in every city of Faerun. In Neverwinter, our contact is a locksmith, named Alice Reinhardt. Though she isn't a cultist, perhaps she will be better suited to advise you."

"Alice Reinhardt," Sisserou repeated the name under her breath, inquiring, "And where may I consult her?"

Icarus answered, "Her shop is located near the docks. She is a spiritual medium, but prefers to keep her talents private. Though she is reluctant to investigate the supernatural, Alice has conspired with us in the past in a handful of hauntings, relaying locations of demon spirits imprisoned on the Material Plane. Mention I sent you, and maybe she will respond to your requests more amiably."

"I pray she will respond at all." Sisserou groaned. Her brother pressed her cheeks between his hands, drawing her lips up into a smile.

"You're going to come through victoriously in this matter." Icarus assured, adding as he faded back into the green puddle, and then into the mist that gathered into the vial on Sisserou's necklace, "After all, you're the braver sibling, _paladin_. You behead demons. I cower before them and call it a living."

-

Dank and despairing, little light warmed the dungeon's passages. Rarely, a gentle soul from the temple would deliver slices of fresh bread or glasses of ale to the prisoners, but no such joy had graced the prison in weeks. Instead, the only hope that flickered in the corridors of the wretched place was the musical voice of an adolescent girl, who skipped deep down into the farthest rows of cells. Her blonde curls bounced about her cheeks beneath a black bonnet as she sang a melody in her distant tongue, her young voice pronouncing each vicious syllable of the Abyssal language flawlessly. Misty lace trailed behind her slender form as she crouched before a cell.

"Hey, little miss, "a guard cooed, "You'd better not stray too close to that cell."

"Why ever not?" She sweetly pronounced.

He replied affectionately to the girl, "Well, there _is_ a devil in that cell."

"But he is in a cage," She smiled naively, "And so I am safe, sir."

The guard grinned, shaking his head as he marched past and down the corridor, past the other prisoners. Having decided the child could have her fun rollicking through the dungeons, and having figured her a noble's daughter by her dress, the guard did not escort her from the prison. As he passed, the child leaned into the bars of the cell, her rosy cheeks pressed against the cool metal of the iron. She continued her song, murmuring it as if to put a baby to sleep with it. From the shadows, the devil emerged, kneeling in front of her.

"My lady has sent me with word for you." The girl announced in a hushed whisper, lifting her hood to reveal her spiraling, pink horns to the devil. Suddenly speaking with the intellectual clarity of an adult, she explicated, "There shall be a ceremony tomorrow, and by its end, I shall be named a princess amongst mortals. You must be present, or my lady will be most displeased. She insists that it is of the utmost necessity that you attend, and defend her from the Captain."

"Then send this message to your lady, Rialnah," the devil replied in a subdued hiss, stroking the bars lethally with his greenish fingers, "Her champion will _never_ displease her."

-

Wind chimes fastened to the back of the storefront door jangled. The locksmith continued to pry at a padlock with her pick, pressing on one interior pin to hear a satisfying pop inside the metal carapace of the device. Absorbed with the task, the smith hardly heard the woman enter. But when her peripheral vision caught the lady politely folding her hands over the tabletop, she glimpsed up. Frosty, platinum-blonde locks fluttered from the smith's sandy cheeks, and though her femininity contrasted with her craftsman's' work, the piercing, intrepid silver of her eyes matched the ruggedness of the man's world she inhabited as a guild worker in the Docks District. Her brown leathers crunched as she sat upright, aimlessly flipping the pick in her palm.

"You don't look like a rogue," the locksmith noted, her voice surprisingly musical, "And so I won't tickle your fancy with pick sets and skeleton keys. Did you require my handiwork in opening a chest, a lover's back door, a jammed pantry?"

"No, I'm- I'm here on behalf of the Neverwinter Nine, unofficially." The woman said. The locksmith narrowed her gaze, lifting one finely shaped brow with intrigue. Tossing her pick into the air and catching it back in her hand, she inclined her head in piqued curiosity.

"Sisserou Dianarca," she observed, naming the woman without any pretentious titles, as if to call her by the bare bones of who she humanly was. It was personal, forthright. As if cautiously deciding her words, she introduced, "I am called Alice. What concern of the Nine do you bring?"

Sisserou gulped. Her fingers shuddered against the tabletop, her eyes widened with anxiety and fear. As if submitting a horrible secret to the woman, she strained in a whisper, "Lady Reinhardt, there is a demon in Castle Never."

A knowing, calm expression crossed Alice's features, but she did not relent directly to the request, replying, "So you have previously been acquainted with me."

"I- I don't know what you're saying." Sisserou shivered.

"You knew my last name, and I failed to tell you. Someone must have told you who I was, or else you sought my identity out alone," she stated placidly. Sisserou shook her head stubbornly, grappling for the words.

"I- Alice. Lady Reinhardt," she stammered, "My brother is Icarus, Icarus Dianarca, the head of the Black Cult's Luskan base. He informed me that you have spiritual gifts, that you can commune with spirits, and that you've handled demons before. The Nine requires your talents, Lady Reinhardt, to banish the demon to the Abyss. The creature threatens to secure the crown for her half-demon daughter, and-"

"No need to explain, Sisserou." Alice hushed. She slid her pick across the desk into a pile of similar tools and lowered the padlock to the space in front of her. Leaning in towards the paladin, she composedly responded, "Whispers of the plot have already reached the Docks, and if rumor holds true, your concern is justifiable. But Icarus has poorly recommended my help. I am a medium, Sisserou. My supernatural work is composed of séances and communing with the dead. I undertake hauntings, where spirits and demons alike are incorporeal. Your demon is bodily, and so banishing her is not a task I am capable of."

"Lady Reinhardt, you are all the Nine have left to turn to," Sisserou pleaded, "I… I am a paladin, Lady Reinhardt; I have faced worse than this demon in combat. But I am no diplomat. I am no spiritualist. I cannot reason with this creature, to best her at the political games she plays. And if I cannot- if the Nine cannot- than our throne will fall to a half-demon child."

Alice pondered that, and looked directly into the paladin's eyes. Sisserou shuddered at the chilling, soul-piercing grey of the woman's irises. Alice murmured, "One cannot assume all that is born from shadow is consumed by it."

"This child has been _raised_ in the Abyss, Lady Reinhardt! All she _must _know is cruelty, all she _must _feel is hate." Sisserou insisted, "I know you are hesitant to publicize your spiritual gifts, my lady, but you are sorely needed. Whatever aid you give, if any at all, will be compensated. I swear this."

"Reimbursement is the least of my concerns, Sisserou," Alice assured gently. She sighed, leaning her elbows on the desk. Shaking her head she said, "I am no Black Cultist, nor am I a demon slayer. I am ambivalent to the demonic cause. Moreover, I have encountered demonic presences only rarely, and many of those cases end up an infestation of a vengeful or nefarious mortal spirit. I sincerely wish I could promise you an outcome of my service, even an opinion on the quandary, but I know not what shall come of my help."

"Then you will help us?" Sisserou replied quietly.

"If my service remains confidential, I will." Alice decided. Sisserou's tense chest collapsed with relief as she sighed, her shoulder loose and sagging. She shed her professional tone and snatched Alice, hugging her as tightly as she could manage. She was no longer a Nine knight, but a concerned wife, a terrified mother, who was consoled by the aid a medium offered. Alice, she prayed, was the answer to her crisis. There was no embrace tight enough to thank the woman for it.

-

Absanoch rolled in his cell, curling into a sphere at the back of his cage and wailing incoherently. He'd torn his surcoat off, revealing a coat of sweat over his sculpted, greenish-grey abdomen, and he rasped and hissed as he breathed. All of his devilish sensibility and calculating logic were shed for the vestige of an utter madman. He looked a fool, and his guards thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle.

"Gods, can't you shut him up?" A royal guard spat at a handful of Greycloaks gathered around the cell as he passed through the dungeon. Stopping behind them, the guard pushed through the crowd, rebuking, "What is this circus? Get back to work; we've had worse pr-"

"-Sir, he can juggle- just watch, I'm certain he'll do it again!"

The royal guard groaned, "You gave the _fiend_ things to _juggle_. Fantastic."

"Sir!"

Absanoch bounded to his feet, launching himself at the bars and beaming insanely. The royal guard, stunned, hopped backwards into the crowd, eyes wide as he bellowed, "Someone sedate him and move him to solitary confinement! This is absurd!"

"But sir," a guard commented, "He's rather… comical."

Another suggested, "He'd be a wonderful jester for the soirée tonight at court. There's _nothing_ to lighten Neverwintan hearts after a scuffle with the demoness like a crazed fiend willing to humiliate himself!

"Yes, precisely _Imagine_ the look on that bitch's face when she sees another fiend making a fool of himself. What a message _that_ would send!" One piped, "It'll be the perfect joke!"

The royal guard paused, cocking his head in thought.

"I'd better not be demoted for this," he warned, to the excited nods of the Greycloaks surrounding the cell. The royal guard stomped off, exclaiming as he turned the corner, "Make me regret this, and I'll have you scrubbing the dungeon floors with your tongues until they're so raw you can't mumble a word!"

From the cage, the devil's crazed laughter faded into the silence of his pitiless scowl.

That threat would be the _least_ of their concerns.

-

Unlike most demon lords, Graz'zt hardly indulged in material pleasures, and his fortress evidenced that. The expanses of his Argent Palace, a cluster of silvery towers rising above the abyssal city of Zelatar, were meticulously clean and bare of furniture, as well as residents. The occasional beast romped the entry corridors to ward off hapless adventurers and bothersome paladins, and a handful of snakelike mariliths guards patrolled the higher towers. Few mortals ever walked the demon lord's halls and survived, and devils were altogether slain upon entry to the Abyss itself. However, as chaotic as the Abyss was, it was rife with exceptional cases. Asmodeus's visit was but one of these instances.

Red-skinned and cloaked in uniformly scarlet robes, the Lord of the Nine Hells detested the very air of the Abyss. With every breath, his lungs filled with its bedlam, and contested the lawfulness that exuded from every pore and orifice of his body. Wrinkling his nose, he glided undetected down the corridor into Graz'zt's personal quarters, slinking through the iron door and into the cold emptiness of his tenuous ally's study. Inclined against the mantle of a grey marble hearth burning with green flames, a book in his hand, he barely glanced up at the intruder.

"Sending another one of your aspects, are you? I'd hoped that you would grace me with your true form this time, but alas, I am left disappointed." Graz'zt greeted coolly. Asmodeus reclined in a seat by the fireplace, folding his arms across his chest.

"I have little choice, given that the Blood War still rages and I've traveled into demonic territory," he stated calmly. Graz'zt momentarily peered up from his book.

"Well, if your machinations unravel as we've hoped, then that shall soon be a matter of no concern whatsoever," Graz'zt nonchalantly replied, flipping a page in his volume. He read the first paragraph, leaving a fleeting silence pass before he noted, "Your assassin has been of little help."

"Ah," Asmodeus smoothly replied, "So the Lamb succeeds alone."

"She's already contested the throne, and the king declares his verdict on the succession at a ceremonial affair tonight. There is no need for the performance; if he plans to uphold what is scribed in his declaration of succession and honor Tyr's evenhandedness, Rialnah must be named to the crown. The Lamb is competent alone," Graz'zt reported unenthusiastically, closing his book with a resounding thump, "Oh, but _surely_ don't mistake his uselessness for my dissatisfaction."

"I won't," Asmodeus said, narrowing his gaze as he added, "Even Mephistopheles, the most mutinous of my archducal subordinates, was pleased with the servitude of my right hand, as I'm sure you shall be."

"Oh, Asmodeus, spare me the sarcasm," Graz'zt laughed, crossing the room to lean against his desktop, idly shifting the papers behind him, "Purely because his role has been… _minor_ doesn't mean I am displeased with him. The bastard juggled keys and acted as a lunatic to gain entry to the royal ball. Absanoch Shaddonhale will clearly protect my prized emissary to any humiliating extreme."

Asmodeus smiled, almost tenderly. His voice softened, "I doubt that is any indication of his undying loyalty to _you_."

Graz'zt questioned, "And so your assassin is smitten with my ambassador?"

"Is difficult to love her? Even devils in my court adore her for her beauty and charisma." Asmodeus replied. Graz'zt snickered cruelly, pacing around the back of his confidante's seat and in front of the fire.

"And no heart is blacker than hers," Graz'zt promised, "She rose to her seat of power by slaughtering every last Saintrowe demon, including matron Balimynah. I have no doubt her ruthlessness will extend to the current situation in Neverwinter."

Asmodeus merely grinned, staring past Graz'zt and into the flame. His own fiery eyes captured the sparkle of the emerald blaze, and the light illuminated the gold lining of his robes. He considered aloud, "I cannot protect you should Neverwinter discover that you are behind this. I've involved myself enough in this plot by condoning it."

"I doubt that Neverwinter shall retaliate en mass. Axarthys understands it is meant to be seen as a personal mission," He promised, slithering towards the couch that Asmodeus was seated on. He leaned casually into the seat, an arm loosely slung over the back of the sofa. As his legs settled into the cushions, a rattle of chains and armor abound his waist echoed the room, blending into the crackling noise of the fire. Graz'zt considered, "Neverwinter believes she serves her own intents by instating Rialnah as heir and slaking her vengeance against the city for taking that human from her. The city knows not that I stand behind this plot."

Asmodeus shook his head hopelessly, ascending from his seat with a countenance of dissatisfaction plastered on his lips. Before departing the Argent Palace, he warned, "Should this coup of Neverwinter fail, I will not hesitate to negate our alliance and abandon all hope of ending this Blood War. Pray your faith is rightly placed in the Lamb, Dark Prince, for if she falters, my armies will be pounding on Zelatar's gates."


	3. Triptych III

**The Black Canary: Triptych Three**

Perhaps the dawn was faint that morning, for no pinkish light was cast through the knight Nevalle's drapes and onto the satin of his sheets. He woke early despite the lack of radiant morning light, fumbling through the covers to where Axarthys's body should have slept beside him. Discovering that the spot was empty, he rubbed his eyes wearily, scoping his chambers. At his desk, Axarthys perched atop his seat. Her hair was tousled still from the night before, but had been secured in a loose tail that rested over her shoulder. Nevalle's eyes fell down her neck and to her back. Her diaphanous nightgown revealed a skeletal spine beneath that cast bony shadows over her arched figure. Her curse, the cold, racked her body and taken its toll of her frail form. Pity consumed his heart, and he silently crawled from bed, swathing Axarthys in his arms. Nevalle mourned apologetically, "I scoured the Abyss for you."

"And if you would have found me?" She asked quietly. He kissed the back of her neck, nestling his nose into her hairline.

"I would never have left you from my sight again." He replied.

She grew colder than even her hypothermic state, and shivered, "I would not have accepted your protection, if that is what your words imply."

"That's not what I would have offered." He responded soundly. Axarthys crept from the chair, sitting on the desktop to stare into his eyes. Her own strained sadly, her brow knotted. When Nevalle leaned in to kiss her, she turned her cheek, gasping audibly. He pressed abrasively, "Why do you turn from me, Axarthys? Even last night you were terribly distant. Have you forgotten me so easily?"

"Too much has transpired in these past years. I ascended to the most enviable of positions in the demonic hierarchy, and yet concurrently regressed, settled for power and not humanity," she breathed, speaking aloud what she wished to cement within. Composed, her countenance faded into dignified blankness, and her lips hardened. She responded more solidly, "No demon is exempt from the Abyss's will. I am a _prisoner_ to the Abyss, to my immortality, to the chaos and unadulterated rage that burns inside my hollow heart. Despite my rank, I am no less chained to my plane than a common hezrou."

Nevalle wove his fingers through her loosely bound hair, brushing her cheek with his thumb. He scorned, "I knew an Axarthys who was a diplomat amongst _mortals_, not demons. She was perfectly content with a life lived in Waterdeep, presumably as well, a life spent in _my_ company."

"I have aspired and obtained grander goals." She unabashedly snarled, her voice sounding serrated and uncharacteristically sharp. Nevalle stepped closer to her, unconvinced of her certainty, and stood between her knees as they dangled off the edge of the desktop.

"Whether fiend or human," he noted, "No one is willing to trade happiness for power."

"As if you are right to speak of trading happiness." She accused, though her tone had softened. Her knight lowered his hands to her shoulders, resting his chin atop her cloudy hair. He closed his eyes, listening as the scratching inside the walls intensified. A sense of dread rose in him, his throat tightening. He battled his body's detections of the supernatural, and focused entirely on the woman, rather than the demon.

"_I've_ traded happiness for the hope to see you again," he admitted soundly, sighing with a growl, "Perhaps more correctly, I've traded happiness for the chance at happiness with _you_, to begin the very _moment_ we were reunited."

"Such the risk." Axarthys uttered with the smallest measure of tactful regret.

"Risk?" Nevalle laughed. The sound was as bleak as it was morbid. His hand descended swiftly to Axarthys's waist, forcing her body against his torso. He grasped her jaw, lifting it so she was forced to look at him. He declared penetratingly, "I grew up the spoiled blueblood. Happiness at stake or not, I _expect_ to get what I want."

Axarthys's resultant tremble was scarcely one of fear. She succumbed to his wishes and knotted her cold hands into the muscles of his arms, challenging, "Then why did you beg for me in the hallway, Nevalle, if you were so assured I would be yours?"

"My tactic succeeded, did it not?" He answered, his fingers tracing her bare skin down to her thigh. The knight lifted it, bringing her knees around his back. He caressed her lips with his fingers before his mouth, tasting the smoke on her fiendish tongue. In midst of their kiss, he lifted her off the desk and swung her legs around his torso, laying her on his bed beneath him. One hand remained on the small of her back, as the other rubbed the polished pink of her horn. When he broke their kiss, he propped himself on bent elbows overtop her. Axarthys's styled hair unraveled into hundreds of spiraling rivulets streaming across the pillows. Nevalle admired her snowy locks, her grey face. He'd nearly forgotten her slit pupils, but they were a shocking reminder that she shared no earthly blood. The knight's fingers tingled with the thrill of her, and he shivered.

"Have I made you cold?" Axarthys frowned. Nevalle shook his head.

"I'd forgotten how terrifyingly beautiful your eyes were," he answered, realizing how romantic the words sounded when they were spoken. Seizing the opportunity, he dipped his face lower for a kiss, kneading the small of her back as his lips gnawed sweetly on hers. When they drew away, Nevalle murmured, "I love you, my lady."

"Then send for a seamstress," Axarthys smiled, "For Abyssal finery is scarcely appropriate for a Neverwintan affair."

-

"The announcement ceremony is to begin in less than a half hour's time," Casavir mumbled to Sisserou. Seated next to him at the banquet table, she barely passed as the paladin she truly was; her immaculate skin, silken hair, and dazzling velvet gown hinted at the occupation of noblewoman, not warrior. Smitten as he was with his wife's resplendence, Casavir's mood was dampened by the absence of his noble peers. If his Luskan-bred paladin wife could coif her hair and appear on time for the event, there was little excuse for Neverwintan nobles- namely Nevalle- to be scrambling in late.

Sisserou sensed Casavir's distaste, noting quietly, "Only three seats remain unoccupied, over at the farthest tables. Look."

Casavir scoped the room, snorting inaudibly at the truth of her observation. But as his eyes returned to Nasher's empty throne, he noticed a platinum blonde seated at a nearby table. He curiously gazed at her, and Sisserou momentarily glanced over her shoulder. She explained, "Alice Reinhardt."

"A noble?"

"A locksmith, actually," Sisserou chuckled sweetly. The sound reassured Casavir that his wife's fears, for the time, were quelled. She was smiling faintly when she added, "And a spiritual medium whose aid I requested."

"Her work won't be difficult," Casavir mused, "There's no spirits she'll need to summon. They've already arrived."

"Hmm?" Sisserou posed. Casavir motioned to the entryway leading to the inner court of the castle. The guests' prattle diminished to an echo of whispers as Axarthys sin Saintrowe, sheathed in a slender orange gown that clung to every inch of her figure beneath; though the fabric was modest and covered every inch of her, it was as thin as paint. Sisserou tensed as Axarthys approached her table, slinking into an empty seat. Casavir observed his wife's expression vacillate between disgust and envy. Demon or woman, Axarthys's flawlessly knotted hair, manicured nails, and immaculately shaded eyes were easily envied. Casavir himself swallowed guilt for admiring her.

Regardless of the beauty, her veneer wore quickly; the paladin smelled the brimstone beneath her frankincense, heard the cacophony of demons beneath her silent sneer. Axarthys lightly expressed, "Let those most involved in this ordeal diplomatically convene at one table."

"May I suggest, my _lady_, that you keep company with nobles of your stature? Surely you would not sully those painted fingers by sharing a table with a lowly Luskan." Sisserou scathingly remarked. Axarthys tilted her face upwards, revealing a collar entirely comprised of cut diamonds encompassing the length of her throat and extending beneath her neck and chin.

"Your company is preferable to the medium's," Axarthys piercingly uttered, and then grinned lethally, "If I can sense her spiritual powers from the other side of the chamber, one can only _imagine_ how overwhelming her powers would be in proximity."

Sisserou's face grew frighteningly pale, and her composure threatened to unravel. She leaned into her husband, grounded herself, and coiled her hand around his as she responded, "I would hardly wish that, Lady Saintrowe. Plenty of seats are to be had at our table, and it would be a pity not to fill them with willing guests. Does Sir Nevalle plan to join us?"

"I doubt a legion of _planetars_ could keep him from pursuing me here." Axarthys ominously replied, laughing musically under her breath. To Casavir's ears, the noise sounded like a thousand fiends clamoring. He clenched Sisserou's hand under the table.

"It appears that may be true." Casavir managed through gritted teeth. The knight, clad in a black leather surcoat studded with silvery spines and matched gloves, stalked into the chambers with a half-finished glass of merlot secured in an upturned palm. He exuded an air of self-indulgent aristocracy. Casavir suffered a pang of self-consciousness. He'd earned his lauded position through sweat, blood, and tears, not through birth.

On the second thought, so had Axarthys.

"I never envisioned such an affair for a single announcement" The demon said, drawing Casavir from his thoughts.

Nevalle wrinkled his nose, "Nasher can be apt to pomp. A spectacle usually diverts curious eyes from the empty throne."

"That will not longer be the case after tonight's announcement." Sisserou countered, adding with a superficial smirk, "Though I'd be careful to envision either of our children with a crown atop their heads. Regents will be named to rule in either one's stead, after all."

"I shall heed those words, wise lady," Axarthys purred, leaning into the table with her chin tucked elegantly down, her ethereal eyes glimmering, "And envision _myself_ adorned with the crown of Neverwinter."

"I wonder, would it fit around those horns, my lady?" Sisserou snapped. Casavir snatched his wife's wrist under the table as if to rebuke her, though he battled the victorious grin spreading over his lips. Nevalle's chocolate eyes narrowed.

"Shall Casavir and I leave you to your catfight, my ladies?" He groaned. Casavir's resounding snigger was genuine and unsuppressed this time. Nevalle swirled the wine in his glass and cracked a smile, drinking a swig to numb the frustration with the women. Sisserou shot Casavir a glare, and Axarthys glanced to Nevalle with a plucked brow raised.

"I am accustomed to the diplomatic customs of the Abyss, sir knight. In our system, these ferocious word games are perchance the… _foreplay_ to the culmination of our political resolutions, when physical means are resorted to." Axarthys explained. Nevalle stole a final swig from his glass, setting the finished vessel on the tabletop.

"Perhaps Lady Sisserou had best watch her back, then," he snarled. All lightheartedness drained from his voice as he finished, "lest she coax her Ladyship Emissary's champion into a battle she could not _possibly_ win."

Axarthys's face went momentarily blank. Sisserou squeezed Casavir's hand suspiciously, but her husband responded to Nevalle instead, noting, "Now, now, sir knight, don't be a hypocrite. If we forbid Her Ladyships from a skirmish, we must follow in suit."

"I was addressing Lady _Sisserou_, not her husband." Nevalle clarified darkly. Casavir's steady, nonchalant expression thinly masked his fury.

"In matters concerning my wife in a trial by combat, _I _will be the one addressed, Sir Nevalle." He managed furiously. Nevalle's shoulders hardened as he grasped the armrests of his seat and withdrew irately into the upholstery, as if prepared to lunge forth and assault Casavir. It was Sisserou who stroked her husband's hand calmly beneath the tablecloth, discouraging any retaliation. The softening of the fellow guests' voices and the colorful silks of bards gathering at the front of the hall provided enough distraction to disband the quarrel, at least in that moment. Sisserou sighed gratefully as a throng of gypsy women jingled their tambourines to a popular Neverwintan dance, their feet gliding independently of their music-making hands. The distraction was a welcome antidote to the anxiety between Sisserou and Axarthys, Casavir and Nevalle. As the gypsies' act concluded, Sisserou pleaded in her thoughts for another act to quickly consume the makeshift stage.

Her wish was granted as a regiment of guards, toting a prisoner dressed half in jester's harlequin and half in leather plate mail to the front of the hall, just as the gypsies danced into the shadowy backstage of the castle corridors. The guards shoved their chained prisoner into the center of the hall, and Sisserou saw the man for what he was- a devil, and the prisoner she'd transported from Crossroad Keep. The guests gathered gaped and gasped in dread, their eyes affixed on him with sick curiosity.

"In homage to our _beloved _guest, Miss Saintrowe, we'd like to present her with the performance of a fellow fiend," one guard announced sardonically, commanding his peers, "Fetch the knives, so he may juggle!"

Another guard scurried from the squad, collecting a handful of knives from his tabard pocket. He offered them to the devil, who did not accept them. The fiend stared blankly into the guard's eyes, motionless.

"_Entertain_, you worthless bastard." He ordered.

The devil responded with a crazed grin, pointing at Axarthys, "Perhaps I may be unchained, so that I may entertain these humble mortals with a Baatorian dance, shared fittingly with the _demon_."

The guests applauded excitedly, thrilled with the prospect of witnessing their loathed enemy sully her demonic hands in a dance with a lowly devilish prisoner. Hesitant, the guards heaved on the chains binding the devil, drawing him back from the hall's center. A handful of rowdy guests booed at the response. The orchestra gathered at the back began to play a waltz, as if to goad the guards into permitting the devil his freedom. Persuaded, the guards freed the devil. He immediately dashed to Axarthys's table, sweeping her into his arms as he spun wildly away with her, thrashing her so that her neatly bound hair loosened, and stray locks fringed her forehead. The crowd howled and whooped as their loathed villainess was made a fool of.

If only they'd known that they were the fools.

"I apologize for the ridiculousness, my lady," the devil spoke levelheadedly to her in the ancient Baatorian tongue. So loud was the music that it drained the sound of their voices out, to the fiends' benefit. To the audience, the two were merely swirling about frantically in humorous dance.

"Apologize not for such ingenuity," she replied in his devilish tongue, "I doubted we would ever rendezvous incognito, and yet here in Neverwinter we both are, seemingly each with personal quarrels to solve. Well done, my Absanoch."

"There is no time for congratulations," he rebuked, "We have too little time to speak, my Lamb."

Axarthys frowned, "_You_ have surely grown callous."

He responded coldly, "Play the role Graz'zt instructed you to play, and permit no distractions, including so foolish one as love. Axarthys-"

"-Sir Darmon, messenger of Lord Nasher Alagondar, has arrived with news from our lord that the heir to the throne of Neverwinter has been named." A guard bellowed. The orchestra's music ended succinctly, and the crowd's interest shifted from the dancing fiends to Darmon, who waited by the entry. Absanoch leaned into Axarthys's shoulder, a hand wrapped around her head gingerly.

"Above all things, you must trust me." He commanded. Before Axarthys replied, he melted into the crowd, disappearing into the darkness.

"Citizens of Neverwinter and humble guests of Lord Nasher," Darmon announced, "His Lordship wished me to inform you that though by all stipulations of the declaration of succession Rialnah sin Saintrowe should be named heir, that Neverwinter is not a kingdom ruled by documents, but by the good will of the people. And because we are a good and decent people, we must betray the documents that bind us, and forbid a demon from ever inhabiting our throne. Thus, Lord Nasher has named the successor to the throne as Sir Rodric, and Casavir as his son's regent."

Relieved, jubilant applause and cheers resounded powerfully in the hall, as friends embraced and families hugged. Axarthys fled the chamber, tugging her hair free so that it hid the shame scribed on the features of her face. She began to bolt for the exit, praying she was swift enough to reach Absanoch as he escaped. Nevalle caught a glimpse of her orange silks fleeting, and jumped from his seat, racing towards her. Inside a winding castle stairwell, he pinned her to the stone wall. She writhed beneath his grasp, declaring, "I will not watch your people celebrate an heir who has been named outside the declaration they have penned!"

"Axarthys…" He cooed. She broke from him, lifting her skirts to dart up the stairwell. Nevalle followed her slowly, discovering her at a tall landing in the castle overlooking the estates of Blacklake and beyond beneath. Cold zephyrs blew through the opened panes, and the drapes fluttered. Axarthys's tangled tresses danced about her suddenly tranquil face.

"My lady?" Nevalle asked.

"Let us retire to your chambers." She softly answered. Nevalle nodded dutifully and collected her in his arms, guiding her to his quarters. Axarthys peered over her shoulder as they rounded the corner, once more glancing at the opened window that had undoubtedly acted as his escape route.

_Above all things, you must trust me_.

The words resounded in her mind, but hardly rang true.

-

"Praise _Tyr_." Sisserou sighed into Casavir's tunic, her hands clamped on the small of her husband's back. Though the Neverwintan crowd surrounding them jubilantly celebrated the naming of Rodric as heir to the throne, Sisserou felt only immense relief. She would only know joy when Axarthys departed Neverwinter, and a demon was permanently barred from the throne.

Casavir shared her sentiment, saying, "For the moment, we are safe."

"I suggest we use this bought time to formulate a new strategy, should Axarthys devise a different plan of attack," Sisserou snorted, wrinkling her nose with a soft smirk, "Two paladins can surely agree that demons are pesky creatures bound to strike continuously until permanently disbanded."

"It is good to see the glaze of fear in your eyes replaced with the sparkle of levelheaded cunning," Casavir chuckled, ruffling her black locks, "But _I _suggest we savor the night and enjoy two fine ales from the Flagon, before the whole city runs afoul with the good news and the kegs are drained."

"My lord, my lady?"

It was Alice. Though she was perfectly composed, distress filled her grey eyes, and her calmly folded hands stiffened unnaturally. Her voice strained, masking some truth she only wished to share with her audience, and not the crowd gathered, as she whispered, "The baatezu prisoner has escaped. You must return to your son."

"Is he-"

"_Please_," Alice begged, "_Go_."

Neither paladin wasted a moment in sprinting to the stables, where their saddled horses waited.

-

Rodric's nursemaid retired long before her charge would curl into his sheets that night. The boy convinced his keeper that he slumbered by snuggling deep under his coverlets, where the woman couldn't see the smile on his lips as he clenched his eyes shut. Believing he was already immersed in his dreams of knighthood and Neverwintan court life, she descended the staircase and rounded the corner into her own bedroom. Certain that she was gone, Rodric peeked his head from under the blankets and sat at the edge of his bed.

A mischievous grin beamed on his boyish face, his eyes glittering playfully. Now, he had plenty time to watch the stars from his window and spread the multitude of his toys cross the carpet at the foot of his bed. Rodric lowered his dangling feet to the floor.

Before he stood, a cold hand cupped his mouth. His scream muffled, the boy could all but squirm in terrified protest as he was dragged back onto his bed. Has his nursemaid caught him trying to evade his bedtime? Rodric expected to see her familiar face above him, but when he was securely back in bed, he glanced up to a face half-concealed by shadow, but clearly with curved horns and eyes- hideous eyes, serpentine eyes- that glowed orange in the night.

Petrified, Rodric could never have noticed Absanoch Shaddonhale removing the needle of poison from his belt. He felt only the sudden sting of metal beneath the skin of his wrist, and heard the emotionlessly croon of the devil's voice, as he explained emptily, "By the order of Asmodeus and the will of Graz'zt, you life is forfeit for your unlawful claim to the Neverwintan throne."

The boy wriggled under the devil's grasp, to no avail. He knew not what the monster's words meant, and as he contemplated what 'forfeit' was, felt his eyes flutter shut. His heart wrenched in his chest, his throat tightened, and he faded. Before his heart gave out, Rodric wished he'd gone to bed like his nursemaid had told him, and considered the punishment he'd never receive the coming morning.

-

While Nevalle slept soundly under the blankets, Axarthys lingered at the bottom of the bead. Tentatively seated at her knight's feet, she chastised herself for not slumbering soundly next to him. Surely, he'd stave off the chill of her skin, and chase away the thoughts that churned in her mind with the physicality of his touch. But demons needed no sleep and chose to only with deceitful intent. It felt a lie to sleep beside him, to partake of something so exceedingly human, without further dark intent. Axarthys listened to the peacefully rhythmic inhales and exhales of Nevalle's breaths. _Mortals_, she scathed mentally, with a pang of guilt.

She fleeted the bed and paced the chamber, gliding to the windows. The night was undoubtedly lovely, like a black cloak frosted with snowflakes. Axarthys reached to the glass above the opened window, resting her hand against the surface. Immediately, the chill of the glass stung on her already frigid flesh. She recoiled, withdrawing from the scenery apparent outside.

"Cold?"

Axarthys scarcely needed to face the voice to know it wasn't Nevalle's. She shuddered, terrified at how he'd entered so silently. She breathed his name, as if in fear, "Absanoch…"

"You heeded my words," he stated, crossing the room from the entry. He'd torn the jester's harlequin away, leaving only the monotone black leather of his armor. Absanoch brooded, "Had you pursued me, you would have been falsely accused of the plot which is about to unravel."

"Abs-"

The devil explicated, "The knight is your witness; a night in his chamber, your alibi. I should _hope_ that shall be obvious in the crisis to come."

Absanoch's expression didn't change. He advanced, standing inches from her. Axarthys expected his grasp to be fierce, but his gloved hands cupped her jaw with more amorous tenderness than Nevalle had shown her. Releasing a calm breath, Axarthys leaned into the cold armor of his chest, hesitant and wary.

"Graz'zt's alliance with Asmodeus depends on the accomplishment of this task. Whatever fate that unravels here shall dictate the political tide of the Blood War." He reminded her, as if to comfort her, tense in his arms. Axarthys snorted.

"That is _hardly_ consoling."

"Ah, pardon my devil's logic. I should have appealed to your emotion, and not to your ambitions. Such is the way of the Abyss- chaos over order, passion over success," he rebuked himself. Though the sound of his voice fell flat, Axarthys read the sincerity in his diction. Absanoch murmured, "If it comforts you, my consort, I have remedied our concern. Asmodeus ordered Rodric's elimination, and I return to you having effectively carried out my duty."

Axarthys released a lengthy, frustrated hiss. Absanoch continued, his tone returned to its chilling nonchalance, "Perhaps it was a drastic measure, but Asmodeus's plans are thorough and we are best to place our faith firmly in them."

"I fear that you will be indicted for your political tactlessness." She corrected penetratingly. The devil scoffed.

"I fell from Heaven alongside Asmodeus and into the pit, my Lamb," he noted morbidly, "There are worse fates than the judgment passed on me by mortals. In fact, I urge your frankness in handling this matter. If you are interrogated by the knight, do not hesitate to note my involvement."

"Asmodeus is a fool to think so ill-advised a plot will achieve Graz'zt's goals," Axarthys replied, "Demons are not renowned for their diplomacy, but we are intelligent enough to recognize tact from recklessness, and discretion from such blatant stupidity."

"If Asmodeus's plan is followed through, time will ultimately disprove that notion. Graz'zt will go to incredible lengths to secure such a pointless throne, and Asmodeus's plan suits that," Absanoch jeered. He gathered her fingers in his, kissing the back of her hand. Despite his physical gentleness, however, his eyes glowed with primitive ferocity.

"I have loved you these precedent years," Axarthys responded, "But I cannot quell the unease in my heart at such statements."

"Then you do not heed the tenet I insisted you place your faith in. What did I instruct, my lady? Ah, that _above all things, you must trust me_," He withdrew and passed her, standing in the frame of the window as he uttered, "Heed my instructions as dutifully as you have thus far, my little Lamb, and I shall take you to Baator alongside me when this is finished."

Absanoch sat on the window seal and tumbled intentionally out of the opened glass. Axarthys sauntered to the window. But when she peered down, there was no sign he'd ever fallen, and she growled. She hoped to see him dangling vulnerably from a window pane on the castle wall beneath her, to see him swinging from a flag mounted on the exterior stone. Her love for Absanoch was failing, and her allegiance to Baator through his consortship wearing lethally thin.

-

For the second time in his life, Casavir's world fractured, and utterly collapsed to ruin.

The Knight Captain-

"_Casavir!" She shrieked as she tumbled to the floor._

_In the bare light the crest of Axarthys's white hair glittered like fresh snow, the pink of her eyes a glow. The Knight Captain's body hung flailing weakly in the assailant's arm. The Knight-Captain bled from inside her mouth, her lips opened as if to make a sound though no noise came. Axarthys, her gaze inhumanly callous with expression as cold and hardhearted as stone, murmured in explanation, "Her vocal chords are severed."_

_Just as the paladin heaved his mace upward the slightest inch, the sword's point at the Knight Captain's back crashed through her upper chest. Before he could attack the tanar'ri, she had finished sawing the woman's lower abdomen._

The Knight Captain, lost forever, so violently had she been slain.

And now, now he was lost with her.

_"Sisserou, Sisserou, I heard you scream from downstairs. Sisserou, what's-"_

_"Ca-Ca-Cas-"_

_"Why do you weep, love?"_

_"Casavir…"_

_"Come now, my love, and we'll speak in our chambers. You'll wake Rodric."_

_"Cas, Casavir, He'll never wake."_

_"Sisserou…"_

_"Rodric is dead, Casavir, dead."_

The heartbreak he felt for the Knight Captain's death was tenfold suffered in Rodric's loss. The news hit him so suddenly, so hard, that no words or tears escaped him. Unexpectedly, his happiness became indescribable sorrow and insurmountable rage. As the rush of emotion crashed down upon him, Casavir realized he grieved his son, but toiled with his inaction more. He'd been enjoying fine drink and performance at court, while his son was dying. His son, who died alone, who died at _all_, the brightest light in the paladin's world extinguished. And he'd done _nothing _to stop it.

What parent could ever imagine returning home to their beloved child dead, his body the image of slumbering tranquility, flesh sapped of color and warmth?

"_She has done this, Casavir."_

"_We cannot know, my love, we cannot-"_

"Casavir! Listen to me! _Rodric, Rodric was poisoned."_

"_Sisserou, my love, my Sisserou…"_

"_This is Abyssal poison, Casavir!"_

"_How can-"_

"_Because I am a paladin, Casavir, and you should know well as _I _that this is unnatural! Can you not smell the sulfur on him, Casavir, can you not see the greenish tint to his sweet cheeks, to his dear, sweet, dead face, oh, Casavir! My Rodric is gone, my son, my only child, my baby is dead, Casavir! And she has stolen him from me!"_

He could not weep. He was her pillar.

"_We cannot blame demons on all the ills of the world, my love."_

"_Then who would have done this? That damned Nevalle? What would he not do in the name of that wretched fiend, what sacrifice would he not make in her evil cause! He has sold his soul to her, and sealed the pact with the blood of our Rodric!"_

"_Sisserou, it is not the time for justice."_

"_Shall it ever be a ripe time for vengeance, Casavir? Are we to allow this atrocity?"_

"_No," he cooed, "We must mourn it first."_

And with those words, Sisserou's world shattered, abandoned her, and left her to the icy reality of the loss of her only child.

-

For five consecutive days, it stormed. On the first day, a perpetual sheet of rain caused a drapery of water to fall from the roof, casting a misty sheet to glaze the estate's windows. It was but one of the excuses Sisserou armed herself with to stay locked in her chamber, head bowed into her knees as she silently questioned how Tyr could have stolen her son from her, how he could have abandoned Neverwinter to the hands of a tanar'ri. All that broke the strings of her thought were the smacks of raindrops on the roof when the rain intensified, the muffled sounds of Casavir and the temple sexton discussing her son's burial, and the weeping fits that overcame her when reality returned to her.

The second day's rain fell gently, like rivulets of tears coursing quiet paths down the bricks and stones of the estate's exterior, with a backdrop of muted thunder booming in the heavens. Casavir, dejected as he was, comforted Sisserou with the tender gravity of his words, consoling, "Tyr mourns Rodric alongside us, my love."

"How can you know?" Sisserou wept. Casavir cupped her jaw in his hand, lifting her chin upwards.

"Because Tyr is crying," He cooed. Sisserou parted her lips, but Casavir hushed her, and nodded towards the window, "Raindrops are the tears of heaven."

He departed Sisserou when his housekeeper arrived at the chamber door, somberly informing them that the priest waited downstairs. Casavir kissed Sisserou's forehead soothingly and walked downstairs, making certain to close the door inaudibly behind him. Sisserou gazed out of the window longingly, into the emerald expanses of the fields Rodric once frolicked in. She imagined the blind Tyr weeping from the empty sockets of his eyes, and began to bawl again, as she realized no one but Tyr would comfort her upon returning to Neverwinter. With Rodric's loss, there were pressing matters of the state far more important than soothing her sorrow. For the remainder of the day she cried, until no tears remained, and she was left to cough and hack the sadness from her body. Exhaustion overcame her, and she fell into a restless sleep before Casavir was finished accepting the sympathies of nobles that had caught word of Rodric's death and descended onto their home to offer their condolences.

On the third day, Sisserou awoke to the steamy scent of peppermint tea. The warm aroma goaded her from the ignorant bliss of her slumber, and she slipped from bed to pour a cup of it. Nestling into one of the seats by the window, she held the scorching cup in her hands, allowing its heat to chase away the chill of her heart. Casavir joined her, having brought a tray of fruit from the kitchens. He set the platter on the table between the chairs, silently offering Sisserou the food. When she turned her cheek from it, Casavir did not press her. He instead uttered softly, "I see my words yesterday did little to soothe you, my love."

Sisserou frowned, shaking her head, "I am never ungrateful for your words."

"No, that is not what I meant to imply," Casavir murmured, settling into his chair with a sigh. His grief was suffered within, but the mask of his solemnity fleetingly shifted to sorrow. Once he again spoke, only his tone indicative of his anguish. He faintly explained, "As a fellow paladin of Tyr, and as your husband, I feel… as if I am responsible for your recent loss of faith."

"My son is _dead_," Sisserou replied bleakly, and at that realization felt tears swelling in her eyes. She sobbed, "Is it so horrible of me to have lost faith in my god, who has permitted such tragedy to occur to his most devout followers?"

"Tyr did not allow this to happen, Sisserou," Casavir whispered, frowning. He set his cup down and reached over to her chair, weaving his hand around hers. The strength of his grip made Sisserou's weak, exhausted grasp seem all the more frail. She turned her face from him, but felt the tender stroke of his fingers brushing the disheveled locks from her face, seeing the tear-stained cheeks of his beloved wife. He murmured, "The priest told me that Tyr does not allow any evils to befall his faithful, Sisserou. It is the demons that allow it."

"I cannot consider revenge while sorrow yet dominates my heart." Sisserou mewled, her fingers trembling as she held her cup. Casavir sighed, crestfallen.

"I had hoped inspiring your sense of justice would have renewed your faith in Tyr," He admitted, his brow furrowed. He allowed a silent pause to pass, and a sip of warming tea to soothe his dry throat, before he spoke again. The paladin voiced, so softly that Sisserou scarcely heard the words between sobs, "Forgive me, Sisserou. I have fought so hard to remain as stoic as I can for your sake. I've endeavored to be your anchor, but I can only stave off the tears so long. I… I pray you may regain faith and emerge from your sadness, so perhaps I may mourn my son aloud without upsetting you any more, my love."

"You ask me to cease my tears, so you may weep?" Sisserou bawled. Casavir's gaze sunk to the floor, and his wife began to wail, "You, who have endured the death of the Knight Captain and are practiced at overcoming such misery, expect me to simply _end_ my anguish of my own accord, and in so such a time? I, unlike you, have _never_ known sorrow so great."

Stung by her words, Casavir winced visibly. He rose from his chair, abandoning Sisserou and his steaming tea by the window in silence. Alone, Sisserou curled her knees against her chest and cried into the fabric of her dressing gown. Her hands quivered so intensely that the cup fell from her grasp, dropping to the floor with a ceramic shatter. Only after she could weep no more tears did she feel the stinging of her bare shins. The steaming tea had burned her, leaving oblong blisters down her legs. Sisserou stroked the inflamed skin delicately. The pain distracted her enough from her distress to tiptoe between the cup's sharps and into the safe haven of her bed sheets, where she spent a sleepless night staring out onto the soaked landscape outdoors, dreading the morning to come.

Casavir never joined her in bed.

On the fourth day, Sisserou waited until the meek light of dawn illuminated the damp morning until she pushed aside her coverlets and paced the room, at a loss for how her mourning could persist. For three days, she lived in blessed ignorance of Rodric's funeral. With the copious rain, there was no way a grave could be dug. Sisserou braced for that truth to ache, but instead it offered her heart much-needed solace. Closing her eyes placidly, Sisserou released a long, restful breath from her lungs. The only despair that plagued her was the regret she felt for treating Casavir callously. Cringing as having been pierced by an arrow, a strong pang of guilt struck her. It motivated her legs, burned as they were, to carry her to the door, and guided her feet down the stairs and into the dining hall, where Casavir wiled away many a rainy morning. At the farthest end of the table, he sat, breakfast untouched. Sisserou ambled towards him, the thump of her feet against the wood like claps of thunder in the silence of the household.

"Casavir?" She uttered. He motioned towards the seat across from him, but his eyes remained downcast. Taking her place parallel her husband, Sisserou laid her hand atop his hesitantly. She confessed mellifluously, "I have mourned Rodric at the expense of those I love, and for that, a spoken apology is not enough to grant me back the decency of my character. I beg for your forgiveness, and whatever acts of mercy you would command me to do to regain your love and favor."

Casavir lifted his gaze, and Sisserou saw that his eyes were red and damp with tears. He embraced her hand in his, and clutched it as if letting it go meant certain drowning amidst the stormy seas of his suffering. He cried in response, "I ask only that you weep with me, my wife."

Sisserou swung her arms across the table and embraced him, crying into the fabric of his shoulder, and he into the crook of her neck. A wave of welcome relief descended, and the rain outdoors began to pound once more on the roof.

-

It was the fifth day of consistent rain, and not even the blazing hearth could dispel the chill of his chambers. The thinly-sealed window panes hardly barred the damp, cold weather outside from affecting the conditions within. Half-dressed and hunched over his desk, the knight shivered, his body quivering from the top of his neck to the base of his spine, and down his arms to his wrists. He clasped a tabard and tunic in one fist, hesitant. The matte black of the linen fabric wrinkled in his trembling grasp, the very color of the fabric boding ill. How would his attendance at the funeral of his peer's young son _not_ seem repentant, whenever the knight had so obviously consorted with Axarthys sin Saintrowe, the culprit of the crime? However unstained his hands were of the murder, he could not bear to be the cause of more whispered gossip at the funeral than reverent mourning. To _not _attend and remain in the midst of the demon, perhaps the murderer of both Casavir's lover and son, felt sorely blasphemous. And though his allegiance to Tyr wore thin with the completion of his penance in the Abyss, and though he was often vain and seething, his heart was yet merciful enough to desire prayer and closure on so dim a prospect for his peer.

Rodric's death was tragic to Casavir and Lady Dianarca, certainly, yet Nevalle could not help feeling inadvertently chastised by it, as if his jadedness for toiling ten years' time in the Abyss seemed unjustified when compared to the anguish his fellow knights faced. When first he'd spoken of his conviction to Axarthys, she merely furrowed her narrow brows in bewilderment as she pondered softly.

"_But he shall ascend to heaven. He is not perpetually lost, and so I struggle with why you mourn and bear such remorse."_

"_If I died, would you not mourn for me?" Nevalle asked. She tipped her head to the side, frowning as if to emulate his sorrow, as it seemed the polite and human response to the ordeal._

"_I would, as you would be forever lost to me." She considered, "In the case of demons, we do not mourn our fallen brethren, because their essences are reborn again from the Abyss of which we demons are all equally a part. It is not dissimilar that one day, Casavir and Lady Dianarca shall pass, and ascend to heaven to meet Rodric again, and have eternity to spend in his company. You, however, I would never see again, regardless of circumstance, because I may never be permitted to heaven."_

"_I fear I'm not of the heavenly caliber, and as that's not where my soul is headed, you have no right to weep over my corpse when I've expired from this miserable earth." He scoffed comically at himself. Yet Axarthys shook her head somberly, her archaic and supernatural gaze tender. The charmeuse of her gown wisped against his skin, like the ghostly mist of a welcome apparition._

"_Good men need not fear heaven." She replied._

Recalling those final words offered the resolve Nevalle required to stand from his chair and draw the tunic over his shoulders. The chill of his bare flesh was staved off by the soothingly thick velvet of his tabard atop his tunic. He gathered his ceremonial sword and a cloak to ward off the rain, and strolled from his chambers with reputable conviction. All codes of noble conduct dictated he abstain from the event, though human decency compelled him otherwise. Indeed, an innocent man- a _good_ man- had no fear of rumor, if it was simply that. Departing for the stables and mounting his palomino charger, Nevalle began in the direction of Casavir's estate. So it was that the knight acted from the mercy of his heart at the words of a demon.

-

Though it drizzled, and the grave's base was a milky puddle of mud and twigs blown from the trees in the past storms, it was a pristine day. Intermittent dry spells between downpours left a frothy fog over the rolling emerald hills, and the sky drained of its blue was a refreshingly crisp, ashen grey. Rodric's burial could wait no longer for fairer weather, for his small body decayed quickly, leaving an overwhelming odor of death in the muggy air of the estate. So much as she could not bear to never see Rodric's face again, Sisserou thought allowing his beloved body to putrefy was no better than desecration of the dead. In respect, and the utmost love, she had her Rodric's casket sealed long before any mourners arrived. She could not bear to have her dead son be the object of sick fascination.

The waves of black-draped nobles floated into her home, their voices low and their eyes downcast as she passed, fearful of the extremity of her sorrow. Weeping with Casavir had eased her suffering, yet sadness remained. Each condolence she received tested her willpower to retain her tears. Persistent and composed, she greeted her attendants with the grace of a lady, and the gravity of a former mother. As she approached the oncoming wave of mourners, she saw through her gossamer veil a familiar face. Sighing with contentment, she wove through the pockets of people gathered in her home, and embraced him.

"_Icarus_," she breathed, "I had no indication you would come. You risk your life riding to Neverwinter."

"For my nephew's funeral, there is little I wouldn't do, sister. By virtue of my decency and your heart, it was my solemn desire to deliver my condolences personally. You have my sympathy, and my promise that Rodric dwells now in a far grander Eden than mere mortals could know," He assured, releasing her from his embrace. He faintly frowned, "You are fairing admirably well, yet that is no disguise for the pain beneath the sheer mask of stoic courtliness you wear. It is expected of a mother who loves her son to weep."

Sisserou bit her lip, and Icarus patted her shoulder, "You are too brave, Sisserou."

"I worry it is that I have cried all the tears I had to weep." She responded, dismal. Icarus nodded silently. From beneath his black hood he procured a wide, shallow parcel, entrusting it to her with a reassuring grasp on her arm.

"You will need this in the coming days. I pray it will inspire your decency of character when you begin to question the oaths you took as a paladin of Tyr." He said, "Now, if I speak with your husband, I shall leave you to the tender company of mourners who have not related their sympathies to you. Be fearless always, Sisserou, and come to me when your tears swell strongest in your eyes."

He departed, fading into the black ocean of gathered guests. Temporarily alone in a room crowded with people, Sisserou strolled amidst the throngs of mourners retelling old tales about young Rodric's childhood adventures and mischievous escapades. Sisserou momentarily grinned, and then remembered that she no longer had a son. After the guests left her, Sisserou's home would be silent of Rodric's laughter, and the thunder of his footsteps dashing down the staircase would be absent. Breathless, she retreated to an empty alcove, leaning her forehead into the wall. She gasped, catching her tears before they escaped her eyes. Choked with rising sobs, Sisserou lingered in the niche until she had regained authority over her composure, grasping Icarus's package to her chest. As she stole a final, thick breath from the air, one of the mourners had traversed the room and stood now at her corner. From beneath the dark layers of his cloak and tabard, Sisserou saw a shimmer of chocolate brown irises and the flicker of platinum blonde hair. He muttered faintly, "Pardon my guise, Lady Dianarca. If I were not unlawfully suspect in your son's death, I would not be so rudely concealed."

"Ever the egotist, who is called noble only for his knightly title," she replied caustically, her imagination weaving scenes depicting the knight and his demon rejoicing at the news of her Rodric's death, and soaking their throats with wine to the celebration of their daughter's ascendance to the throne. She hissed, "I figure you've no sympathy to offer me."

"I am here, am I not?" He frowned, eyes stained with exasperation, "Though you doubt my sincerity, you have my deepest condolences. Perhaps I am not amongst the most honorable of men, but I am not unsympathetic to a mother's loss."

"I shall treasure your decency," She replied bitterly.

"It will last so long as you need consoling, my lady." He responded, as politely as could be spoken through a tightened jaw. He bowed, taking his leave into the crowd. Sisserou closed her eyes, clearing the spite from her thoughts. This was Rodric's day, not hers or Nevalle's. Matters of the court could wait until her son was laid to rest.

"Sisserou, my love?" The sound split Sisserou's eyes open, as she parted them to see Casavir plodding towards her. He struggled worse than his wife to remain composed. His red eyes and swollen cheeks were indicative of tears likely wept in private between condolences and greetings. Casavir murmured, "The priest wishes to begin, my love. I must go to carry Rodric's casket."

Sisserou flinched, the emotional pain brusque. She uttered in a wheezing reply, "Then I shall lead the mourners outside, my dear."

-

Fort Nessus was the only notable bastion of civilization on the ninth layer of Baator. From the scarred, barren red landscape, it rose from the earth like a mighty tyrant over nothingness. Its bare halls, as elegant empty as they were, provided little solace for the lonely, devilish seekers of knowledge and adventure that wandered their corridors. Absanoch was intimately familiar with each subtle bend of the hallways, and navigated the citadel with impressive ease. Stalking to the very center of the building, he passed a winding maze of passages, and passed a battalion guarding twin wrought iron doors. The legionnaires opened the gates for the devil to pass, and he crossed the threshold into the golden hall of Asmodeus, Lord of the Nine Hells.

"You are doing well, Absanoch," his lord commended. His ruby robes spilled like silken blood down the armrests and sides of his throne. The green-grey of Absanoch's skin echoed in the polished, metallic walls, casting occasional shimmers of mint green to reflect on all surfaces of the chamber. The thump of his boots and the jingle of his studded armor echoed throughout the room and into the remarkably vaulted ceilings.

"I do as you command, my lord." Absanoch replied blankly. Asmodeus chuckled.

"Then I shall be served well in the coming days," his lord replied, leaning forward in his throne, eyes fixed on Absanoch intently. Neither flinched, and after a moment's pause Asmodeus stated flatly, "Rodric's death is the ideal pretense under which we can distract Graz'zt from seizing Neverwinter's throne."

"And then the Abyss shall be plunged into the pits of Elemental Chaos," Absanoch responded mechanically, "Sealing victory of the devils over the demons, ending our Blood War."

"Are you prepared to lose her Ladyship Emissary?" Asmodeus asked. There was a glint of ferocity in Absanoch's eye.

"I lost her Ladyship Emissary," he brooded, "the moment she bedded the knight again."

Asmodeus's laughter was fuller and louder that time. He settled back into his seat and waved towards the exit.

"Assure that the proper revenge is taken," Asmodeus commanded, "and return to me, so that these events may unfold as I have strategized."

Absanoch sunk into a low, purposeful bow of submission. His orange eyes never left his lord's, his expressionless face twisting in diabolical determination as he responded in a deep, soul-chilling growl, "As you will it, my lord."

-

Sisserou clenched the package, grasping it throughout Rodric's burial. His tiny coffin was lowered into the earth with wide, white ropes by Casavir, Icarus, Darmon, and Nevalle, whose aid she neither expected nor desired. _What discretion_, she mentally mocked. No cloak could conceal the man laying her son to rest. She wished she'd banned him from attendance. Having imprisoned herself in her chambers for days upon end, Sisserou missed the arrangements for her son's funeral, having resigned all the power to Casavir.

_Casavir…_

A fresh wave of guilt overcame her. He could barely retain his grasp on the rope, so overtaken with sobs he was. Sisserou abandoned him to make the preparations for the burial alone, and now, whenever he should have found a small measure of peace, he was at his emotional worst. When the mourners had dropped their white lilies into the grave and the sextons began to shovel damp dirt atop the coffin, he stooped to his knees beside Sisserou, weeping. Sisserou, silently crying, stroked his hair soothingly. Her emerald eyes angrily stared into Nevalle's eyes from across the grave, accusingly and scathingly. His demon had done this to Casavir, to her. All those days in sorrow, spent in emotional hell, all those tears wept and sorrows declared, were the fault of _his demon_.

It drizzled then, and there was no distinction between tears and raindrops. Both soaked the green fields of the estate, and coursed in rivulets to the mud of Rodric's grave. A chorus of thunder signaled the mourners to retreat indoors, and Casavir quavered to rise to his feet. He leaned on Sisserou as they ventured back towards their home. As she passed Nevalle, who lingered at the grave, she snatched his upper arm, forcefully clutching him to lean and snarl into his ear, "You return to Neverwinter, _knight_, and tell your demon of what misery you witnessed today, because I will not cease to avenge Rodric until she has suffered it in kind."

-

Sisserou and Casavir peeled the soaked, black clothes from their bodies and donned warm linen shifts for bed, dressing in silence. Casavir crept to the bed, settling under the coverlets as he sat upwards against the headboard, awaiting his wife. She loomed over her vanity, a grey parcel set on the otherwise empty tabletop. Sisserou slowly, warily opened the box, unwrapping the item within from layers of charcoal silk. Her hands procured from the package a black, pointed witch's hat, decorated on its base by two Tyrian purple feathers.

"Icarus…" she whispered. Her hands brushed the hat's silky, frothy plumage.

"Sisserou," Casavir said, and she met his gaze in the mirror. His visage was grave but empowered, and he motioned at the hat. Sisserou fingered its fine fabric delicately, and then draped it over her brow. She turned fully towards Casavir, the feathers in her hat swaying. He murmured, "Perhaps it is time to renounce your role as paladin, Lady Dianarca."

"To battle this demon-"

"-Requires a Black Canary instead." Casavir uttered in response. She smiled fiercely.

"My love, my husband," she answered, glancing at her reflection in the mirror once more, her emerald eyes from beneath the hat's brim shadowed and vengeful, "Tonight I take my station as _witch_ again."

-

A Quick Note: I did not have a chance to extensively edit this chapter for grammar, but wanted to get it posted as soon as possible. Please be understanding; remain cognizant that this was written late at night in a college dorm, and mechanics were not top priority!

Regards-

Valah


	4. Diptych I

**The Black Canary: Diptych One**

When Nevalle returned from Rodric's funeral, his black cloak and tabard drenched and icy, he found Axarthys awaiting him beside his chamber's fireplace, draped entirely in pale pink layers of ghostly silk. Her bare, grey shoulders rose up from the pearl-beaded collar of her gown, fading into the slender neck, delicate jaw, expressionless lips and otherworldly eyes of his Ladyship Emissary. He breathed in the perfume of her frankincense, approaching her.

"It is late," she stated simply. Her words echoed through the chamber, resounding as a muted, devilish screech. The closer he drew to her, the louder the scraping noises on the floor became. Her slit pupils narrowed and set themselves on him, unblinking. He reached out to embrace her with his gloved hand, and she flinched at the chill dampness of his clothing against her already cold skin.

"Perhaps I'd best find something dry to wear." He offered softly. Axarthys stepped in closer, her cold breath glacial against his tabard's wetness. Her hands slithered up his chest and unbuckled the clasp of his cloak, and it slipped to the ground with a rustle. Her hands descended to his belt, loosening it from his waist and tugging the surcoat from off his shoulders. He wriggled free of his boots, and she followed suit, locking her thumbs into his breeches and freeing them from his waist. Sooner than he could embrace her, she turned from his grasp.

"Before you succumb to hypothermia," she ordered faintly, her fingers flexing to point in the direction of his armoire. Silently he did her bidding, shivering at the trenchant reminder of her constant suffering. _To feel perpetually frozen…_

When he emerged from his armoire clad in a balmy wool robe, he discovered Axarthys pacing the room, her stature rigid, as if to discourage any restless movement. Whenever she noticed him there, she halted, immediately folding her hands below her waist as politely as possible. She expressed, her voice loosed of some of its melody, "I cannot walk outside this _cage _without being stalked by your ilk."

"I am sorry," he apologized gently. Her composure splintered, and the bones of her shoulders cracked as she agitatedly shifted them out of their sockets. Mimicking human movement was difficult for the demon, Nevalle realized with equal parts dread and disgust. By the time Axarthys retired each night, she yielded further to the natural contortions and horrifyingly preternatural behaviors of her kind. Regardless how often she swung her limbs out of place or rotated her arms out of their joints, the knight never grew numb to it. It unnerved him still, and that night, she was at her fiendish worse. Her grasp on humanity grew shockingly, frighteningly thin.

"I have the word of Neverwinter's _Captain_ that I could not possibly have slain the child," Axarthys rasped, tensing when the chilling noise emerged from her mouth. She quivered, closing her eyes and swallowing a breath with difficulty.

"You haven't inhabited the mortal world since we parted, have you?" He asked, hoping to divert her from the subject of her accusation. Submitting to him, her posture loosened.

"Forgive my lack of restraint. I am not as… _gifted_ as I once was in emulating the manner of mortals." she murmured. Nevalle shook his head, maintaining his equanimity. When he did not proffer a spoken response, she added guardedly, "Victims of possession contort their bodies as they do because it is not natural for us to move as you do. Demons command all the knowledge in the world, but they cannot know how to act a human when blending into the theatrics of the living."

"Ten years as a Chalice knight still hasn't taken the terror out of limbs flailing out of their sockets and spinning heads," Nevalle admitted with a roguish chuckle. Axarthys's brows softened, and she smiled delicately. Confident that he'd quelled her agitation, Nevalle strolled over to his bedside, prying the cork from a bottle of sherry left there. He inquired, "May I pour you a glass?"

"Is it chilled?" she responded. Nevalle nearly expressed his regret that it was not, but before he spoke, an affectionate smile crossed his lips. He realized she didn't want it to be cold.

"Not in the least," he promised, offering her the goblet. Her fingers grazed his as she accepted it from him, and a wave of sudden heat overtook him despite the frost of her touch. She dipped the glass against her lips, downing a long swig of the intoxicating liquid through the parched tunnel of her throat. When she lowered the glass, Nevalle swept a stray lock of her snowy hair from her face, uttering, "Perhaps the luxuries of the nobility will have the same intoxicating effect on you, my lady, as it does on aristocrats."

She dropped the glass, and it crashed to the floor. The knight was oblivious to its descent. By the time it shattered and the wine had leaked between the panels of the floor and under the bed, Axarthys had smothered the knight with the taste of the wine lingering on her lips.

"I shall be charged with the death of the boy," she panted, silencing his response with her mouth. One of her legs twisted, locking around his waist, her arms bent around him. He broke their kiss, grasping the back of her ashen curls.

"Then I stand as your champion," he declared, before supporting the small of her back against his hand and lowering her into his bed. Kneeling over her, the demon's knees straddled his hips, her fingers straying against his neck to beckon him forward. His mouth again found hers, his hands unbuttoning the clasps of her dress. He promised before shirking off his robe, "You will be safe, my lady, else my life will be forfeit."

-

Icarus returned to Luskan immediately after the funeral, departing before he drew any suspicion from the natives of his city of origin. Though his physical presence was lacking, the weight of the vial around Sisserou's neck soothed her, reminding her of Icarus. Her brother had given her purpose, and it was a better condolence than tears and familial embraces.

Grief and subsequent emptiness absconded Sisserou's heart, and reemergence of the Black Canary consumed her. She lingered at court with runes and spells rushing through her, stealing her consciousness away from the drone of diplomats and the commentary of her fellow knights. While the Nine deliberated, she drifted into a stupor, contemplating the repertoire of her magic and envisioning herself liberated of the armor of knighthood for the pointed capes and cloaks of a witch. After a lengthy session, chiefly concerning unwelcome news of Nasher's declining condition and Rodric's passing, Darmon dismissed the court and returned to his lord's bedside, to report the court's discussions. The knights exited the throne room in numbed silence, and Sisserou snorted as Nevalle ascended the staircase. _To his demon_, she mentally seethed. Just as the fire of vengeance ignited within her, Casavir called her name. She sighed deeply, calmed by his proximity.

"You were quiet at court today," Casavir observed as he approached her.

"I am not prepared to relinquish my knighthood before the Nine," she admitted, frowning, "I am consumed with it, with becoming… what I was, once more. After all, it is not in the proper place of a witch to be entangled in the politics of a kingdom."

"The ladies of Rasheman would disagree." Her husband countered, beaming gently. Sisserou chuckled faintly.

"Perhaps there is credence to your words, my love, but I…" her speech faltered. Casavir rested a palm against her back, bidding her to stroll alongside him. They exited the castle doors and into the streets of Blacklake. Both were silent, reverent of the palpable peace of the district. As they wandered into the Merchant Quarter, they were greeted with the bustle and noise of commerce, and Casavir directed them to the district park, where they meandered between the rollicking greens, enjoying the muted sunshine coating the landscape between the occasional, passing cloud.

"I know very little of your life in Luskan," Casavir mused. Sisserou shrugged.

"If you know of the Black Canary, there is little else to tell."

"All I know of her, though, is that she is currently my wife, and at one time, was a witch," Casavir replied, "And I wonder, why now does she wish to return? Why the paladin is being replaced by the witch, where the witch came from, how she… everything, I'd like to know."

Sisserou stopped, and sunk to the grass below. She crossed her legs, sighed, and leaned back into the plush, textural carpet of green beneath her. Casavir reclined beside her, and she explained, "My family was minor nobility in Luskan. We maintained our title decades before piracy and corruption plagued the city, but when they eventually befell us, we had to find another means to assert our power, a means congruent with the shifting interests of Luskan. My father knew the Hosttower mages were expanding their influence over the city, but he was reluctant to join them. If they toppled in their ascent to power, our family would as well, and so he emulated their practices in hopes that if the Hosttower usurped control over Luskan, our family would be adopted into the ranks of their new government, and not slain. We should've fled Luskan, established a new life elsewhere. Instead, my father drove us into the darkness of black magic and nighttime vigils, in which my occult name was Black Canary.

"My mother was quickly driven mad by the sabbaths, and dedicated her soul to Asmodeus before leaping off the roof of our home, killing herself. My father was only… well, _marginally_ heartbroken, and pursued his talents as a sorcerer relentlessly. He communed with devils and summoned demons for knowledge and for power. Icarus happily followed his example, but I had no talent for black magic. My forte was natural magic, and so I took up the studies of a witch. At first, I studied only to benefit my father, but soon I was enamored with the work for its own sake. While I wasn't the finest of witches, I was certainly the most passionate, and breezed through my studies. I had potential.

"But then Icarus had a most _brilliant_ idea to summon our dead mother's ghost. And when he did, a slew of devils rose with her, and broke free of the summoning circle. They ravaged our home, killing our servants and injuring my father. We looked like fools to the Hosttower. Though my brother was guilty, my father blamed me instead. It seemed logical to him that the less capable of the two of his children would fail so miserably, and it seemed rational that I was trying to commune with spirits, accidentally calling on devils in the process.

"My father banished me, and my brother felt guilty for it as soon as I gathered what few possessions I needed to survive in exile. He gave me the vial I now wear, to call on him whenever I needed him, as an apology. I took it, but I was bent on vengeance. I would never allow another fiend to escape the Hells or the Abyss again. As I journeyed the Sword Coast, I came into knowledge of Tyr's temples, and became a Knight of the Chalice, accounting for much of the hostility Nevalle treats me with. I digress, again. So, the priests of Tyr realized that I suited the role of paladin better than a knight, and so I heeded their advice. I shed all knowledge of magic and took up arms as a paladin." Sisserou released a long breath, closing her eyes. A long silence spanned, and Casavir wove a tress of her hair around his finger.

"But now you are returning to what you once were," he goaded. When she opened her eyes, there were quiet tears in them, rimming her emerald eyes with a glassy, liquid coat.

"I became a Tyrran warrior to slay demons and devils out of spite, out of revenge, and I fulfilled that purpose. I killed fiends on _their_ ground, infiltrated _their _strongholds. Now, a demon has invaded _our_ city, Casavir, and she… she has taken our_ son_," Sisserou cried softly, "Tyr teaches us justice, and perhaps this was _my _justice, for taking up his cause with such horrible intentions. Now, I can no longer be a paladin whenever I know my actions are no better than a demon's. I must return to what I once was, to start anew where I left off. Icarus's suggestion… I admit, in humility, is the right one to be made."

Casavir laughed heartily aloud, and Sisserou shot a piercing glare at him. He amended, "I only find it amusing that despite our many years of marriage, I never thought twice when you swept the veranda with those rickety brooms and never questioned why you harbored a peculiar affection for pointed hats."

"Ha. Ha." Sisserou sarcastically responded. She dried her tears with her sleeve, and a bout of laughter cleared what sorrow remained in her expression. Brushing the grass from her knees and standing above Casavir, she planted her hands soundly on her waist and announced, "Best be careful what you say to me, paladin. I could transform you into my toad familiar."

"Truly?"

"Would you like to find out?" She taunted. The sparkle in her eyes was undeniably teasing, and it brought Casavir immense relief, irreplaceable by any offered by the funeral guests, family, and his fellow knights. Though she mourned still, his wife, his mischievous Sisserou, had returned to him.

-

It was not out of disrespect that Alice abstained from Sisserou's company in the days following Rodric's death. The medium was a conduit for spirits, and wherever she went, souls treaded in her wake. To attend so spiritually charged an event such as a funeral would be to provoke the spirits, coax them from crossing over, draw them from heaven or hell and into the purgatory that Alice communed with. And so, for the sake of Rodric's soul, and for the emotional closure of Sisserou's ordeal, Alice remained in Neverwinter, fitting keys to locks and locks to safe-boxes, tediously tampering with especially challenging devices beside the welcome heat of the fire as the rain poured. Half of her heart pined for the normalcy of a locksmith's work, though she dared not deny the remaining half that ached to offer whatever consolation her mediumship could provide to the mourning, however dangerous it was to give. She continued to pry her locks, her inner turmoil numbed by hot cider and the veneer of her earthly employ.

Yet work failed to provide any escape from the tragedy that plagued her, or to quench her languishing desire to offer the deepest, sincerest condolences to a mother for the loss of her child. Alice tiptoed on a fine line, struggling to balance professionalism towards her clientele and emotional support to a friend, the boundary so precariously drawn in a medium's work. When Sisserou and Casavir returned to court at Neverwinter, Alice at long last finalized her course of action. She fastened the brown wool of her cloak over her shoulders, drew up her hood, and stepped out into the insipid sun of the early evening.

Her path to Castle Never wound through the subdued commotion of the Merchant Quarter and into the serene, sprawling, landscaped walks of Blacklake. She climbed the steep lane to the castle, stating her business with the guards, "I am here to speak with Lady Sisserou. Does she still remain at court?"

"If you've a complaint to register, talk to the Greycloaks," The guard grunted.

"You mistake my intent, sir," She addressed him, "I am Lady Dianarca's counselor, and I need to convene with her, on the recent matter of succession. My endeavors are important, be assured."

"Oh, Miss Reinhardt. Lady Sisserou told me to expect you," he frowned at the common company that the noble lady kept, muttering, "She returned to her estate until the Nine are called back to court. I'm not going to meddle in noble affairs, so… look, go inside, and leave her a message with Sir Nevalle."

"And where may-"

"Top story, up the stairs in the main entry. Quickest route." He interjected, turning back to his post. Alice stepped away without thanks, instead bowing her head defensively and slipping through the entry, traversing the marble floors and scaling the stairs to the sound of the thump of her boots, where all around her, the click of aristocratic heels echoed the halls.

-

A rap on the door.

"Who in Tyr's name-" Nevalle exclaimed, interjecting his speech with a frustrated growl. Days in which he convened with the Nine on matters of the lower class caused the wretchedness of his nights. As Axarthys sauntered through the manicured parks of Blacklake at the day's close, Nevalle was left to review the written plights of Neverwinter's misfortunate and disconsolate. Snatching the tunic over the back of his chair, he tugged it over his breeches, and sulked to the door, swinging it open roughly so the hinges creaked aloud. He was met with the countenance of a platinum blonde woman, her silvery eyes set on his tenaciously.

"I do not mean to intrude open you outside court, but I was instructed to leave a message with you for Lady Dianarca," the woman explained. The clarity of her diction was unlike that of the commons, Nevalle observed with a suppressed sneer. He surveyed her nondescript bodice and skirt, jaw tightened as he beckoned her inside. Leading her to his desk, he lifted a quill from its ink fountain. As he reached for a sheet of parchment, she laid her hand across his. Shocked with the heat of her touch, he withdrew his hand. He had not felt the warmth of a woman for what seemed ages.

"I am versed in penmanship, my lord," she placidly noted. Nevalle nodded and relinquished the quill. He watched as her hands nimbly scrawled Sisserou's name on the parchment, but she hesitated to begin the body of the letter. Her gaze suddenly met his, and the bare grey of her irises pierced the façade of his nobility, as if to strip him of his aristocracy and equate him with her state of humanity. She inquired, "The demon does not reside here?"

"I hardly see why _that _matters in the discourse of your letter," he challenged.

"Lady Dianarca prefers our correspondence to be private," she nonchalantly replied, unperturbed by the acidity of his tone. Nevalle's eyes narrowed questioningly. He leaned in closer to her, placing a hand over the parchment to bar her from writing on it.

"What do you hide," Nevalle growled, "from her Ladyship Emissary?"

Alice pinched the quill tightly, but revealed no other signs of intimidation, expressing, "Lady Dianarca is a friend. I only wish to convey my condolences at the recent loss of her son, a correspondence I would prefer be kept confidential from her Ladyship Emissary."

"Because you think her _guilty_." Nevalle concluded in a snarl.

"Until Lord Nasher clears her of charges, I cannot say so with conviction," Alice responded firmly, glancing down at the parchment to whisper almost with desperation, "May I please pen my letter, my lord?"

Nevalle removed his hand from the paper, crossing his arms across his chest as he sulked to the other end of the room. Assuring his eyes strayed far from her letter, Alice quickly jotted her message down. Her condolences were succinct, but her request for audience with Sisserou was urgent and detailed. Glimpsing once more at Nevalle to see his back turned from her and his gaze fixed outside his window, she added to her note, _Find me past dusk at the Docks in half a tenday. I shall remain at my smithy until we have convened_, before scribbling her signature at the bottom. Blowing on the ink to dry, she hurriedly folded it and presented it to Nevalle. She asked, "May this be sealed, my lord, and sent to her immediately? It is urgent that she knows I wait to convene with her."

He scoffed, seizing the letter from. Marching over to his desk, he gathered a stick of wax and turned it over the fire of the candle illuminating his desk. Rubbing the heated wax in a circle at the parchment seam, he dipped the signet ring on his desk into it, and wrote Sisserou's name on the bottom of the folded sheet. Nevalle growled, "It is done. Lady Dianarca shall have it. Now go, and tell the guards not to send me any more of your ilk. Tyr knows I hear enough peasant gripes at court."

"Thank you, my lord," Alice managed, curtsying before she slipped out of the door, closing it in her stead with a hearty bang. Nevalle rolled his tense shoulders, growling.

"_Commoners_." He muttered.

-

When Axarthys hadn't returned from her stroll by the stroke of eleven in the evening, Nevalle deserted the work at his desk and journeyed into Blacklake's central plaza in search of her. Crossing the largely desolate space and wandering past the theatrical stage, he reached the shores of Black Lake, its glistening ebony surface velvety beneath the nighttime sky. The lake seemed endless to him as a boy, and when his father traveled to court at Castle Never, he would have called for his escorts to row him across it and directly in the district. When Nevalle accompanied his father, it was as if the lake was the size of an ocean, its depths unfathomable and its reaches indefinite. Now grown and tempered with the experience of age, the knight could peer across the watery strait and envision the sprawling landscape of Swychcreste estate, his boyhood home and inheritance, positioned atop the distant, verdant hills of his land.

A sigh released the breath from his lungs as he began to pace the shores of the lake. When he peered up from the water's edge, he saw the black-draped Axarthys ambling towards him, her pink eyes visible even at a distance. At last, when walking closed the space between them, the knight took her hands into his, half-anticipating the warmth of Alice's hands. But he was greeted with the unnerving chill of her ever-frozen flesh instead.

"Gods, Axarthys, you could have been _killed_ staying out so late alone," he chastised exasperatedly, "Why did you not return?"

"I became… _entranced_ with the fleeting freedom," She admitted. Nevalle sighed, looping his arm in hers. They walked along the water's edge, where the ripples of the otherwise calm water lapped the mud of the shore. Nevalle sensed as his arm moved naturally in stride against Axarthys's stiff, motionless limb. He felt her floating, her gait nonexistent.

"I apologize that Castle Never has become a prison to you," he finally responded, with a distinct air of cynicism. Axarthys turned her face from his and towards the water, drawing in a clean breath off the water as the wind caught it, carrying it towards her. Her snowy locks danced in the zephyr.

"Your world is an Eden to me," she responded, "I only wish to be outdoors, where I may best admire its beauty."

"You've wiled quite a time outside, and I wish you'd return with me to the castle. _Your_ beauty is best admired in the privacy of the _indoors_," he stressed, "Where protocol does not dictate your posture be so unnaturally rigid, and where I may enjoy the sincerity of your beauty not for the human masquerade you play, but for the rawness of what you are, in truth."

She winced, prepared to chastise him for his words, for traipsing blissfully unaware into the claws of the creature no human façade could ever mask entirely. Axarthys would be his death, and she knew it. She would be selfish to allow him to love her, and lead him deeper into that chasm, that damnation, from which there would be no penance enough to save him. His soul and body would wither in the negativity of her spiritual essence, and she could do nothing to stop it. Yet he was the gatekeeper to her paradise, the key to purgatory she came to see as preferable to the tumultuous politics of the Lower Planes. She could save him from her, preserve his salvation, if only she stayed away.

Axarthys was selfish, parched for his love, and smiled in reply to his declaration. She uttered, "Then let us return to your chambers, my knight, so that you may love me in full."

-

The air was emptily dry, despite the prolonged downpour that had been the recent weather, and hung stale on the glacial air. Absanoch's breath appeared as two streams of smoke from some infernal engine, the exhaust of a diabolical mechanism engaged in fiendish plot. The watery silk of his robe concealed the reptilian armor beneath, camouflaged him as he predatorily paced in the shadows. He was wary, watching. The nobles meandered past the windows of Castle Never's towers, and the devil spied them vigilantly. He saw the blonde knight departing the castle. Once the knight descended out of the devil's sight, Absanoch emerged.

He leaped onto the stone surface of the castle tower, clinging to the craggy rocks and locking his boots into the slits of mortar between them. The magic of his cloak hissed softly, and blended him into the fabric of the late evening shadows as he scaled the edifice, crawling onto the balcony of the proper chamber. Clambering over the railing, he readied his pick and unlocked the door, slithering into the quarters of the knight Nevalle.

He scoured the room for evidence, under which a pretense for which murder could be falsely established. Asmodeus, in the intricacy of his diabolical plots, affirmed to his agents that assassination required diplomatic subterfuge as well as physical camouflage. After all, ruthless slaughter was demonic, and it was reckless. Without constructing the web of lies that hid his involvement in the crime, Absanoch would fail Asmodeus, and the painstakingly wrought and fragile plot could collapse if he lacked caution and a solid charade for murder. Scoping out the knight's belongings, he searched for something pertaining to Axarthys, even to Rialna. He uncovered only a woman's ring, too large for Rialna's fingers, and set with one canary diamond. A token, perhaps, from Axarthys. It was a memento hardly able to mask a murder. The devil crept to the knight's desk, surveying the papers organized there. Amidst the homogenous piles of red-stamped parchment sheets, one labeled _Lady Sisserou Dianarca_ piqued his interest.

Absanoch broke open the seal, reading the full contents of the letter. He marked the name signed at the bottom of the message. _Alice_. He knew of the talented medium, and was certain, though the letter was vague, that the only reason for a Neverwintan lady to rendezvous with a medium was if it concerned the occult… and, likely, Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Sparse as they came, Absanoch permitted himself a terse laugh. The devil was certain that Sisserou would hasten to Neverwinter if she thought the medium had good reason to solve the succession crisis, and provide closure, at least politically, to the death of her son.

Absanoch could exploit that.

He traced the inked letters, erasing them with the utterance of a spell. Forging what was needed, he tapped the back of the wax seal, heating it with a brief blast of infernal flame. Heated, it easily resealed the parchment, as if no one had tampered with it.

By the time Axarthys and Nevalle returned, the letter lay motionless on the desktop, precisely where the devil had discovered it. As Nevalle stripped off the layers of his tunics and folded Axarthys's finery into a stack beside his own clothes, the demon paced the chambers in her silk dressing gown, tracing the footboard of the bed and wandering over to the desk, where she uncovered what the devil had, unbeknownst to her, tampered with. She scrutinized the seal of her aristocratic paramour stamped on it, officiating the document as Nine business. Sisserou's name was inscribed at the top, and she scowled.

"What is _this_?" She solicited. Nevalle tugged off his breeches as he approached, taking the letter from her hands to inspect it.

"Alice, the medium, needed to forward a message to Lady Dianarca," he explained, shrugging as he took it with him to the door, "I'd forgotten to have it sent to her estate."

As Nevalle took the letter to the servant stationed at the end of the hall, to be sent by messenger to the paladin's home, Axarthys climbed into bed. When Nevalle returned, she already feigned sleep. The knight quietly plodded about the chamber, blowing out the candles and leaving only the crackling glow of the fire to illuminate the room. He dipped under the blankets, tucking an arm around Axarthys as he buried his cheek into her tresses, whispering, "You're quite good at mimicking human behavior. But you can't pretend to sleep if your life was at stake for it."

"Have you a fear of what I may do whilst you sleep?"

"No, only a hope that you'd reserve sex for my waking hours."

"As you did whenever I was unconscious in the bath tub, those many years past?"

He snorted, "Cease your torments, demon, and let me sleep."

-

A squire's young gelding clattered up the trail towards the estate, and his untarnished chainmail clinked as he dismounted and trotted to the door. It was late, past midnight. Sisserou and Casavir had fallen into uneasy slumber whenever they were awoken by the incessant knocking on the door, and Casavir opted to stumble out of bed, collect his cloak, and answer it. The overexcited squire, thrilled to be given a duty to complete on his own, immediately handed the paladin the letter and explained- with incredible fervor, despite the late hour- that it was news for Sisserou from Nevalle. Casavir accepted it, groggily muttering a string of thanks, before slamming the door and cursing the blonde knight for his disrespectfulness.

"For you," he said, tossing the letter onto the bed. Sisserou rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes and took it to the window, where she examined it in the moonlight. She glanced quizzically at the seal, and broke it open with her fingernail. Scanning the contents, she closed the parchment and folded it back into the envelope. Casavir inquired, "What was so urgent?"

"It seems Alice missed us at court, and wanted to meet with me," Sisserou yawned, nestling back under the blankets beside Casavir, "She wishes to meet me at dawn, in the temple of Tyr."

"Daybreak? You'll have to leave here soon." Casavir noted. Sisserou chuckled, tired.

"I'll steal what hours of sleep I can, then." She uttered in response.

-

Rialnah combed her blonde curls at the mirror of her vanity, chirping a lullaby her nursemaid would sing to her as a child. She brushed around the wide, spiraling horns that looped like a ram's around her temples. Commanding her own chamber, while her mother attended to court, instilled the young demon with inflated confidence in her sovereignty. She roamed the city under the guise of her cloaks by day, browsing vendors of colorful cloths and imported handicraft. The freedom that her mother lacked the daughter fully enjoyed, and though she kept herself busy, her life was blissfully insignificant. Rialnah was bound to no schooling, no career, not even the responsibility of an adult. She had the tact and the social prowess of a courtly demon, and the intellect of those twice her age, but flexed those talents with little purpose higher than convincing the castle bakers for a second sweet roll, or duping the city children into completing some base, ridiculous task to serve only her amusement.

She was utterly free and wholly uninhibited in Neverwinter, under no tutor or parent's gaze, so long as her more nefarious exploits were negligible enough to go unnoticed by her superiors. Smiling smugly at her reflection in the mirror, she untangled the strings of her corset and wriggled into her night gown, before curling into the coverlets of her massive bed and collecting the stack of books at the nightstand to arrange on her bed. Most evenings, she stalked the city and frightened street urchins sleeping in the alleys, though tired from her adventures she settled for a subtler pursuit.

Rialnah flipped open to the first fairytale in the volume she chose at random, a tale about a clown who made a pact with a demon lord to exchange his soul for knowledge. The depictions of the motley fool daftly summoning a fiend brought giggles to her lips. As she skimmed the tale and admired the illustrations, she wondered if her human father, who she knew only in countenance, was so dim-witted. From her storybooks, Rialnah knew mortals purely as jesters and idiots. Knights and paladins, with their lofty ideals on redemption only truly achieved by the naive and the sheltered, fell into the latter category. Suddenly weary of the stupidity of the character that usually delighted her, Rialnah cast aside the book and began surveying the other volumes spread across the coverlets. As she reached for one, another slipped off the bed and plummeted to the floor with a thump. Growling, she flung her torso over the side of the mattress and retrieved it.

When she lugged herself back into the bed, there was a man standing over her.

"Hello, Rialnah."

Before she could shriek in surprise, he had his hand cupped around her mouth and his other arm locked around her torso. She struggled in vain to escape, and realized only after glancing momentarily down at the mint-green flesh of his exposed hand that it was Absanoch Shaddonhale, her mother's consort. Though her struggling waned, her body went rigid, fearful of the man she knew only through acquaintance. Her breathing intensified, as did his grip upon her body. Rialnah felt the air squeezed from her lungs. A fierce wind blew open the window that the devil must have entered through, blasting her nostrils with a waft of unanticipated cold. She choked, gasping in whatever air she could fill her constricted lungs with.

"By the order of Asmodeus and the will of Graz'zt," he announced, muttering the words into her ear, "Your life is forfeit for your unlawful claim to the Neverwintan throne."

He plunged the needle into her upper arm. The devil muffled her scream as the poison began its course through her body. When her body flinched no longer, the devil tucked her under the folds of his cloak, and escaped through the open window and down the castle wall. His boots silently met the cobblestone below, and he skulked in the shadows towards the Merchant Quarter, unsheathing his short sword and slinking into the Temple of Tyr.

No rain fell that night, because heaven saved no tears to shed for the demonic.

-

Sisserou alone woke that morning and saddled her steed to ride to Neverwinter. Dawn had not yet broke, but it was well past midnight, and Casavir slept soundly still. The witch felt it her responsibility to convene with Alice, as if it were recompense for leaving the details of Rodric's funeral to her husband. At least by handling the political consequences of her son's death, she felt as if she repaid Casavir for his dedication to burying their child when she was too selfish in her despair to do so. Despite the early hour, knowing that she could remedy her guilt through the meeting with Alice offered her much-needed equanimity. Devoted to making her meeting successful, she felt especially awake, and vigilant of the task at hand.

The ride into Neverwinter was not long on horseback, and the journey was truncated after she bade her horse into a canter, and a gallop when the city walls were in sight. Crossing the opened drawbridge and directly into Blacklake, she eased her steed into a trot, and passed the threshold into the Merchant Quarter. Dismounting at the temple and fastening the reins of her steed's bridle to the post outside, she brushed the dust from her skirts and tucked her windswept locks behind her ears, before marching inside.

Tyr's temple was eerily dark, illuminated only by sparse candles reflecting off the polished mahogany of the pews. Sisserou glanced at the seats in front of her, which were unoccupied. As the chill of the morning breeze lifted from her nose, the witch perceived the odor of fleshly decay, and then of blood. Her eyes rose to the altar, where illuminated by the skylight above, was the demon-spawn's severed head on the offering tray. Sisserou's head spun, and dizzy with the sudden horror of the spectacle, staggered into a pew, leaning against the seats before her in support. Breathless and aghast, her mind grappled with the reality of the nightmare before her. Hundreds of questions and fears assaulted her conscious mind at once. She panted, "Alice, what have you done?"

"More appropriately, human, you should ask what _you_ have done."

It was the devil, Absanoch. He reclined in the pew next to her, materializing instantly beside her. Sisserou leap from her seat, hurriedly backing out of the pew, exclaiming, "It was _you! You_ killed her!"

He replied unfazed, folding his bloodied hands into his lap, "According to Neverwinter, I disappeared after I escaped the palace ball."

"There is no evidence in all of the planes that could indict me for this," she seethed.

The devil continued, ignoring her statement, "Though you slept soundly in your estate, there is written evidence in the proof of the correspondence you received from the medium Alice Reinhardt that you were both to convene on the matter of the heir to Neverwinter's throne here this morning. Alice committed the crime on behalf of the alliance she made with you, and by meeting here, you would verify the death of Rialnah Saintrowe- her handiwork, if you will."

"Scheme as you wish, _fiend_, but I am an upstanding member of the Nine, and all of Neverwinter will know the truth through me that it was _you_ who killed the child," Sisserou declared. Absanoch's orange eyes brimmed with victorious pleasure.

"The Greycloaks ceased searching for me after they recognized the fruitlessness of their endeavor. Blame me as you like, human, but you will only look as a fool evading justice," he responded impassively. Sisserou parted her lips to scream, but Absanoch noted coldly, "I may depart swiftly as I came. Should you scream for their help, your damnation will only befall you more quickly."

"The priests know that I am innocent, and a loyal Tyrran." She proclaimed.

"_Do_ they?" the devil inquired sharply, "Your dubious origins in Luskan came back to haunt you whenever you consulted with your demon-summoning brother, which all of _Neverwinter_ will know whenever Alice admits under interrogation that you approached her after receiving his recommendation to do so. Then there is the matter of the curious gift from your brother, and the secret you harbor even now that you intend to resign from the order of the Nine and reclaim your mantle as a witch."

"You cannot know-"

"Of your secrets, your deepest fears? Yes, I _can_," Absanoch answered, frustration fraying the collectedness of his voice, "Did you _sincerely_ believe I escaped the prisons merely to cower back into the Hells? No, human. I spied on you, watched you, stalked you, and constructed pretenses under which Neverwinter would fall, so that neither demons, _nor _humans, nor _any_ force under Celestia's fields could rule this city. Asmodeus has plotted _every step_ of this plot, from the murder in Waterdeep, to my arrival at Crossroad Keep, to my transportation to Neverwinter, to this moment. Every event that has unfolded has occurred with purpose, and the fruits of Asmodeus's designs shall soon be known to your wretched people, and to the ones that matter most, her Ladyship Emissary and _her _lord, Graz'zt."

"So Axarthys wasn't here to serve her own intents," Sisserou whispered. Absanoch scoffed.

"_Certainly_ not," He replied, "She despised the mortal plain after she was banished by Tyr from it. She'd been ejected from the Eden that she loved, and condemned back to the Abyss, back into hell. Rage consumed her, and she ascended to the position of Graz'zt's Blood War diplomat, filling the hole left by paradise's loss with an unquenchable thirst for power. Installing her child as heir to Neverwinter's throne was her final assignment on the mortal plain, Graz'zt promised her. He wished to begin large-scale assault on the material world, to establish strongholds from which he could later launch an attack on Celestia, and Rialnah was conveniently born the child of a Neverwintan knight. Wishing to ally himself with Graz'zt, Asmodeus capitalized on this quest by offering my aid to Axarthys as her champion. My aid, as well as our preexisting consortship, sealed the feeble alliance."

"Except now you've shattered Graz'zt's plan, and broken the alliance," Sisserou snarled, "Because you slew the final remaining heir, you fool."

Absanoch's quiet laughter froze the witch with terror. He glanced up at the head on the altar, and back to Sisserou, murmuring, "It was but another step in Asmodeus's plot. After _Axarthys_ slew your son, you wreaked vengeance upon her by killing her child, plunging Neverwinter into political chaos by removing both candidate heirs. My hands- _Asmodeus's hands_- are clean of any crime, and Graz'zt will be distracted with the anarchy that shall unravel here, and busied with his continued attempts at grappling for the throne through political conspiracy. It shall be during this time that Asmodeus gains the upper hand in the Blood Wars, first by decimating Zelatar, the economic center of the Abyss, and from there shall plunge the Abyss to the bottom of the Elemental Chaos and destroy the cosmological structure of the Lower Planes, and begin his ascent to godhood."

"I hope that your lord likes surprises, then, because he's going to be shocked whenever he finds _himself_ plunging through the planes and back into the damnable pit from whence he came, all over again. The gods of Celestia cast him out of heaven once, and they'd be happy to repeat history." Sisserou challenged. The devil stood gradually, beaming with an unsettling grin.

"We shall soon discover if that is the case," he announced. Sisserou reached to unsheathe the knife at her belt, but before it was drawn, the devil evaporated and a thunder of footsteps resounded inside the temple as the priests of Tyr hurried into the central church. They crowded around the altar, their faces appalled and petrified at the sight. The din of their gasps, yelps, cries and screams abruptly halted as Sisserou stepped from the shadows of the last pews, striding towards the altar. One priest pointed a critical finger at her.

"Lady Dianarca! Lady Dianarca has wreaked vengeance on the demon, and now she will invite the wrath of her Ladyship Emissary upon all of Neverwinter!" He exclaimed. Two priests dashed out the sides of the temple and out through the doors to alert the Greycloaks about the discovery immediately, while more followed to bar the central door. Sisserou stood composed at the center of the aisle, drawing in a breath to ease herself before she spoke.

"I cannot speak to this crime," She announced, "Until I have met with Alice Reinhardt. There is more afoot than what seems apparent, fellow Tyrrans."

"You shall receive _no _counsel from _anyone_ until the City Watch deems it appropriate, if ever." The high priest answered from amidst his cluster of subordinates. Sisserou could not risk challenging him, as the devil clarified earlier for her. Helpless, she could only wait until Casavir came for her, and until her Ladyship Emissary would hear the full truth behind the plots of her supposed champion. Distress summoned tears that had been reserved for Rodric before, and spilled down her cheeks and onto the white linen of the dress beneath her cloak. She heard the Greycloaks' armor clank as they funneled into the temple from the ulterior entries of the church, lining the main body of the building as more gathered from throughout the Merchant Quarter's watch post. Brelaina trudged in last, frowning sorrowfully, disheartened, downtrodden, despairing, heartbroken more with the crime than by the visceral horror of the bodiless head upon the altar.

"Lady Dianarca, until you have been cleared of this crime, you must remain imprisoned in Castle Never for your crimes." Brelaina lamented. Sisserou nodded sadly, offering her wrists to her. Brelaina clamped the metal cuffs around them, and clutched the end of the chain binding them.

It would be a long, humiliating march to Castle Never for Sisserou Dianarca.

-

He'd been tacking his palomino stallion for a morning jaunt around Neverwinter's grounds, seizing upon the pleasant coolness of the day's magnificent weather as to leave his quarters to Axarthys alone. She preferred commanding the breadth of the room to lay her myriad of finery and jewels across the bed, admiring them all before deciding which regal selections to don.

News of Rialnah's death, and less significantly Sisserou's imprisonment, reached Nevalle by message of a royal guard. The armored man clanged up through the stable, bowing as low as he could, decked in plate mail. Nevalle was first irritated that the guard hadn't relayed the news to her Ladyship Emissary first, but soon felt burdened with the sadness of having to tell the demon herself that her child was dead. Sarcastically thanking the guard, and ignoring the man's sympathies for the loss of the knight's daughter, he departed the stable and scaled the steps to his chambers. He found them empty; the coverlets of his bed were folded neatly, the pillows arranged in a row across the headboard. Not one silvery trace of her silk and chiffon gowns graced his chamber. Not one echo of demonic laughter, scraping in the floorboards, not one chirp of a voice lilting in tongues.

The guard _had_ informed Axarthys sin Saintrowe that her child was dead, and she was gone, leaving Nevalle with no farewell or lingering trace of her stay. The knight cried out, the noise a conquered sob and an infuriated scream. He'd _lost_ her.

He screamed her name, lurching down the hallways, pursuing every shadow, every flicker of light, every drapery blow aside from wind that did not howl in Castle Never's halls. His mind swelled with hunger for her presence, and spun as he languished for her to haunt him, to stalk him down the hall and appear to him. He yelled in agony, pounding his fists on a wall as he reached a dead end in the castle corridors. _He was losing her again_, as if she was ice melted to water that leaked through the gaps of the fingers grasping her. He almost sensed the ghostly chill of her body evaporate into nothingness, her physical form shedding, returning to the Abyss and escaping the mortal vale. _He could not lose her again._

Nevalle staggered down through into the center of the castle and out the door, stumbling through Blacklake as he shouted her name, her title, and insisted knowledge of her whereabouts from the oblivious passerby. He swayed on the divide between despair and lunacy, reeling down the hill from the palace and into Blacklake's plaza, begging for her, pleading for her. _Why would she abandon him?_ He trudged away from the castle, crestfallen, furious. Nevalle arrived at the final estates situated on the crescent bank of the lake, grabbing his side in pain from bellowing her name.

"Praise _Tyr_ the Nine finally sent someone," a noblewoman breathed with relief when she saw Nevalle, her pecan-brown hair rippling as she trotted to him. She grasped his upper arms, pleading, "The Bryce family's crypt was broken into, my lord, the seals to the door disappeared as if they never existed. I harkened the racket within my home and rushed to chastise the grave robbers, but no one was present, and the door hung limply from the crypt, so I-"

"I don't have the _time _for grave robbers," he muttered irritably, turning away from her. But she pursued him, again reaching for his arm.

"Sir Nevalle, I beg you," she implored, "A shadowy figure… as if, as if a mass of darkness blacker than night, descended into the crypt. I witnessed it as I moved down into the burial chambers in pursuit of it."

"Spirits are a consequence of a past spent dabbling in the occult, Lady Lisbet. I think you should recognize that by now," He snapped.

"My lord, a _demon _was in that crypt. I've been versed enough in the occult to mark the difference between mere ghosts and the fiendish ilk," she replied stubbornly, narrowing her eyes in confident assurance.

"And what _proof_ have you that it was a demon?" He interrogated, "The stink of sulfur? The sound of leathery wings flapping? Of nails tearing against the inside of walls inaccessible to mortals?"

"_No_, Sir Nevalle. I saw a gateway open, in the dankest pits of the place, and burst into flames whenever I caught the shadow passing through it. Tyr knows the Bryce crypt has enough of a reputation for being haunted, that spirits could shift between spirit worlds in its dungeons. But _no _spirit would depart in such a fashion." She explained. His jaw clamped tightly shut, and he gave her one critical glance before immediately bounding down into the sepulcher. Lisbet followed closely in his wake, gathering her dress's hem to scamper after the knight and snatching a torch from the entry to illuminate their way. They journeyed to the deepest chambers of the sepulcher, where Nevalle knelt down on the ground to examine the summoning circle engraved on the floor and highlighted in chalk. He traced his fingers over the edge, pining for Axarthys. _She had truly abandoned him_.

"This is where I saw the demon disappear," she noted, explaining, "I'd hoped that the shadow was a concealment spell, and that once cornered in this room, that the culprit would reveal themselves. But the shadow… it crawled up the ceiling, or faded up to the ceiling, however it did. And then it dripped, as if water, save it looked more akin to smoke, into the old summoning circle. That was when the flames burst from the circle, and the spirit was gone."

Nevalle stormed from the crypt, offering no farewell to the noblewoman.

_Axarthys would never leave him. She had been banished. He knew it to be so; it had to be so. _Sisserou had done this; she and the blonde woman, the medium. For their crime, for his loss, he would wreak vengeance tenfold upon them.

-

The news came swiftly to Casavir's estate. Before the messenger could finish his announcement, Casavir tugged his surcoat and cape over his shoulders and nearly trampled the messenger as he bounded to the stables. He bridled his stallion and mounted the horse bareback, galloping towards Neverwinter. He lost Rodric, and now was on the verge of losing his wife, his second soul mate. His world threatened to unravel all over again. Cutting a shorter path through the forest, the lowest branches tore at the paladin's sleeves, and left thin cuts across his forehead and cheeks. Casavir clung to the stallion with all the might in his body, the blue of his Nine tunic flapping in the wind. As he emerged from the wood, he saw the city situated in the distance, and urged the final burst of energy from his stallion. The paladin and his mount charged into Blacklake and thundered up the hill to the castle, where he handed off his horse to a guard before they could direct him to a stable boy.

He wheezed for want of air, his heartbeat drumming in his ears as he plunged down the stairwells and through the catacombs to Castle Never's dungeons. Without asking for her location, Casavir shoved past the guards and searched desperately for his wife. In the dankest reaches of the corridors, he heard her sobbing. Dashing towards the sound and kneeling before the bars, he saw her crushed form without, reduced to a heap of dirtied white linen and sullied ebony locks disposed of in the cage. His heart broke and pined for her through the bars. He called for her, "Sisserou, Sisserou…"

"I have done no wrong, Casavir, none, and they will not grant me counsel. I swear upon my faith in Tyr that it was the devil who did this," She wept. Casavir reached through the bars, but his arm did not extend far enough to comfort her.

"Your character is greater than such ignobleness. I know you would never begin to _think_ of committing such a crime, and Neverwinter will soon agree," he assured Sisserou, hushing her as she cried. But her sobs continued, growing hoarser as she depleted her tears.

"I must speak to Alice," she begged, "Please, please find her and bring her to me."

"The Greycloaks have surely imprisoned her as well," he replied gently. As sincere as his words were, they only evoked louder weeping and pleas from his wife. He resolved to search for regardless, standing to return to the prison's entry, where the guards were stationed. But as he approached the entry, Nevalle stomped towards him. The fury in his eyes was undeniable.

"_What has the bitch done to her? Where is Axarthys?_" He bellowed. Casavir held his ground firmly, digging the heels of his boots into the dirt floor of the prisons.

"Oh, naturally you're concerned with the well-being of your demon and not the life of the child you gave not a single _damn _about." Casavir snapped. The knight backhanded him, sending a collective cheer through the prison cells as the captives hollered and egged on their battle. Casavir retaliated with a punch, but Nevalle evaded it and caught the paladin's arms, locking the two in a stalemate.

"She kills Rialnah and leaves her _head on the altar of Tyr as sacrifice,_ and now Axarthys has disappeared completely. _No one_ in Neverwinter has seen a _trace_ of her," Nevalle snarled, shoving the paladin farther into the dirt. Casavir saw the redness of the knight's eyes, and the damp remnants of tears already shed. Nevalle bawled, "_Sisserou has taken my child and my love from me, and I will not be satisfied until it is _her_ head placed on Tyr's altar!"_

Casavir broke from Nevalle's grasp and clutched his forehead with his hand, pacing the prison corridor. He at last faced the knight and exclaimed, "How do you think I feel any different than you do now? I've lost my son, and now my wife is imprisoned under suspicion of murdering a child. I will stand to her defense at whatever cost, but know, Nevalle, that I suffer _everything_ that you suffer now."

"Where is Sisserou?" Nevalle demanded, ignoring the paladin. When he was offered no response, the knight rammed past him and stomped to the end of the corridor, following the sound of the witch's tears. He kicked the iron bars as loudly as he could, roaring, "_Shut up! What have you done with Axarthys sin Saintrowe?_"

"_Wrong _answer!" The knight shouted, again slamming against the bars. Casavir leapt behind Nevalle, grappling with his shoulders to pry him from the prison bars. Tackling him to the ground, they rolled across the dirt, until Casavir gained his footing over the knight and pinned his arms against the ground.

"I declare a duel to the death to decide the innocence of Sisserou Dianarca, as is my privilege as a Knight of the Nine," Casavir stipulated resolutely, struggling to keep the knight trapped. He elaborated, "This evening, you are to meet me in the throne room, brandishing whatever weapons you carry on your person."

"Then I stand for the innocence of her Ladyship Emissary," Nevalle dared, hissing, "And so whoever falls, falls alongside their woman, condemned for the guilt that is hers."

Before he agreed to the terms, Casavir heard his wife cry out against it, her cry deafening. But for honor's sake, for chivalry's sake, and for Sisserou's sake, he had no other option. He released the knight, pointing at the exit with a growl in his mouth.

"Leave, knight." He ordered, and with that Nevalle stumbled off into the darkness.

-

She dived through the abyssal portal, surfacing in the heart of Azzagrat.

She collected the hem of her stormy silks and hastened through Zelatar, its capital city, immersed beneath the satin of her hood. She raced for the Argent Palace, her thoughts rife with a symphony of demonic voices, calling her name, beseeching their emissary. Her ears swelled with the noise of their torment, and she shed her physical form, rematerializing as diaphanous black mist to reel past the lingering ghosts and entities, weaving through the passages of the city. She rematerialized beyond the palace's walls and into a corridor, cavorting past chambers rampant with grotesque beasts and hideous monsters and quarters lush with velvet-draped lounges, where succubi courtesans satiated the pleasures of a host of mortal victims. So long had she spent in Baator and in the mortal realm that navigating her former home proved complicated, the course to her lord's throne ambiguous.

Axarthys heard the calling of her name, a whisper in her ear, and recognized it at once as Graz'zt's. It provoked her, tormented her, as if to dare her to find him. Resolving to turn back, the demon fled up a flight of stairs, through a maze of new hallways. Graz'zt's disparaging laughter roused the resolve of her pursuit, until she turned a corner and discerned that she stood, mysteriously, at the center of Graz'zt's throne room. When she peered behind her, where the corridor should have been, she saw all but empty air.

"You always _did_ impress me with your diligence, little Lamb. So few demons even have the _patience_ to be diligent. Yet you would stalk these halls endlessly in search of me, even without hope for success," the demon lord announced. The unoccupied throne was suddenly full with his black armor, the purple sash at his waist all that separated his bare chest from his plated legs. The spires mounted on his pauldrons continued down his arms and onto his gauntlets, imparting a reptilian air to the demon's frightful, yet appallingly handsome, visage. He rapped the metal claws of his gloves against the throne, casually sinking back into his seat. He growled, "Your talent is _precisely_ why it is such a pity that you have failed me in _so_ _simple_ a task as usurping human thrones."

"I have served you over a _decade_ without fail." Axarthys rejoined. Graz'zt stood from his throne, towering over her petite form. He unsheathed his claymore, a wavy-bladed monster of tarnished iron, from its scabbard. The metal hissed as the sword was progressively drawn.

"Our agreement was stated with flawless clarity, little Lamb," he unperturbedly reminded her, "You were to secure the throne of Neverwinter, and you would be removed from mortal politics forever. Do _not_ entreat me to grant you the reward for what you failed to accomplish."

"I will _not _return to the mortal plain," she stated resolutely, "I will _not _return to Neverwinter, where I cannot leave the safety of the castle walls without escort, where my child was heinously slain and where I could encounter the same demise, and you _cannot_ command me to return there."

"I may command you where and when I please, your _Ladyship_," he seethed, "_Especially _as the success of your mission shall determine the forecast of the Blood War itself. Asmodeus will not tolerate an allegiance with a demon prince who cannot seize mere mortal crowns."

"And what shall I do, then, produce more heirs?" Axarthys retorted.

"You have the knight smitten with you still, no?" He snarled. She shook her head, hesitant at first, and then with determination.

Axarthys again shook her head, recoiling from Graz'zt's throne as she responded quietly, passionately, "I have pleaded for no credit in the ambassadorial exchanges you assign; I have requested no power beyond the privileges of nobles and no payment save for worldly luxuries to entertain me. And now, whenever all I appeal for is salvation from the mortal world, and your promise that I never shall never more sully myhands in mortal squabbling, you will not grant me it."

"I wonder, do you wish to be free of the _mortal_ world, or of the _knight_'s? You retreat when I suggest you bed him, little Lamb. Perhaps I can do away with him, and fit you with a better candidate of Neverwinter. Perhaps a human possessing a grander claim - Duke, perhaps, to match the very title you command as Duchess Saintrowe. Would that please you?" The demon prince noted gamely, mirth parting the ebony of his lips, his cheeks lifted to narrow his pupil-less emerald eyes.

"My knight should have had sons by now, married a countess, or a marquise," Axarthys murmured. The words cut a wound in her heart, and she grasped her chest, as if the emotional pain was a corporeal onslaught. She cried out, "I _will not_ be his downfall again! I will not steal from him the happiness_ I_ was refused."

"Then I revoke your station of you, Axarthys sin Saintrowe. You are no longer in the employ as my Blood War emissary, or in the service of my court as a diplomat or even common courtesan. Leave, little Lamb. You have wrought enough pain upon me already, and _clearly_ your father Dantalion described it best: love, and not hypothermia, is your curse. Be damned, then, and go. You will know my wrath soon enough." Graz'zt solidly declared, extending his blade to judgmentally indicate her, indicting her of her foolishness, marking her for her daftness. Protesting tears rose to her eyes, but she suppressed them, exploiting her composure to retain the grace she valued most of all her traits. Backing away from the throne with her eyes fixed on the demon prince, she sunk into a bow at the end of the chamber before parting.

"Then I take my final leave, my lord," she announced, "Carting only my titles with me."

And after eons of servitude to demon lords, Graz'zt and Demogorgon alike, after the centuries of Saintrowe legacy established in the Abyss, Axarthys, the last of the Saintrowe demons, divorced herself from the abyssal politics that had identified her.

-

Trudging up from the dungeons, disconsolate having wiled time in the company of his imprisoned wife, Casavir marched to the armory to prepare himself for combat. He'd carried only the Nine tunic on his person and the hammer belted to his back, unaware that combat with Nevalle would ensue once he arrived at the city. Sulking up the stairs, fuming still, the paladin chastised his inanity for invoking the right to duel. Certainly it was Nevalle's rage that had provoked the paladin to suggest swordfight, but he doubted the knight would actually _agree _to the desperate terms. With a second thought, Casavir considered that to offer such terms, and to accept them, was a mark of blind anger on behalf of each party.

Guilt began to wear on Casavir. Not for challenging the knight, as justice begged to prevail, and his wife to be defended. Indeed, it was not for justice that he was ashamed, but for having to slay his fellow knight, he felt guilty, guilty that justice should come at so high a cost as the death of his friend. He prayed to Tyr that, perhaps, death would offer him the solace and love that life had not. It was all the paladin could aspire for the knight. Casavir entered the armory with a heavy heart, distressed and angry at once that these weapons of war should have been used against Luskans, against the King of Shadows, against demon, and not against comrades.

He perused the selection of armor, collecting a chainmail tunic off a mannequin as he selected the finest plate. He removed his mantle and tunic, leaving only a linen shirt, breeches and boots to wear beneath the armor. Wishing Sisserou could assist him with the process, he donned the chainmail, prying the breastplate off of the display to buckle it over his torso. He struggled to arm himself, groping for buckles and straps invisible to him.

"Amusing as this is to behold, you won't need the armor. Nevalle has requested that you both should fight in the mantle of the Nine."

Darmon leaned in the doorframe, arms crossed nonchalantly over his chest. Casavir replaced the pauldrons on the mannequin, unfastening the breastplate as he ambled to the door, removing the armor as he walked towards his fellow knight. Time had tempered Darmon's waywardness, but not his good sense of humor, despite the depravity of circumstances the Nine had faced in the recent years. He guffawed under his breath as the paladin drew near, nodding towards him, "Casavir, I haven't seen you declare something so bold since you high-tailed it out of Neverwinter and ended up in a festering orc-pit up at the Old Owl Well. What's gotten into you? Regressing to your old self, eh? "

"Nevalle needed the sanity pounded back into him," Casavir grunted.

"Lot 'a good that's going to do the man when he's _dead_," Darmon observed. He permitted Casavir a morbid laugh before lowering his voice, frowning with gravity, "Look, Casavir… much has transpired in the past number of weeks. We have lost a son of Neverwinter in your Rodric, a knight of the Nine with Sisserou's imprisonment, lost a demon somewhere in between. I… I only urge you to consider that Neverwinter is fraying at the seams, and quickly. We've lost so many, to our detriment and benefit. Consider that losing Nevalle would only add to our tragedy, and further tatter the fabric of our city."

"Did Nevalle send you to tell me this as well?" Casavir replied sourly. Darmon shook his head.

"I visited his quarters when the Royal Guard told me that a duel had been declared, and he said only what I've stipulated about the armor. Nothing more," Darmon quietly answered, "He wishes to see Axarthys once more, in case he dies tonight."

"Most naturally," Casavir snorted. Darmon shrugged.

"I'm not about to defend his character, or excuse him for being misguided. He knows _precisely_ the primrose path to hell that he chases her down. But is his love sincere? Yes. He commands titles and wealth enough to have married and produced many sons by now, and has not, in honor of her. He is arrogant and miserable, to be sure, but I cannot deny that he is a decent man, Casavir," Darmon uttered, patting his fellow knight on the shoulder, "Remember that."

The words left Casavir with shame rather than meditation. Darmon departed, leaving Casavir alone in the armory to layer himself again in the garb of the Neverwinter Nine, and to secure his hammer to the scabbard on his back. For Sisserou's honor, he could not end what he'd undone, and so he tromped down the stairwell, furious and languishing, to battle with Nevalle.

-

"Please, sir," Sisserou begged through the bars of her cell, "Do they battle yet? Does Casavir win?"

She'd queried the same subject every time a guard wandered past her cage as they patrolled, pleading for the assurance that her husband was unharmed, and that he succeeded in defending her honor. Pitying her fretfulness, and the sight of one of Neverwinter's knights imprisoned, each guard solemnly shook their heads as they passed. Time crept past mercilessly, and in the dank, dim halls of the prison, Sisserou could not judge the hour of day outside. The only indication that time trudged forth at all was the distribution of dinner loaves, marking the early evening. Anxiety, over both her husband's safety and, less significantly, her innocence, prolonged the hours she wasted in her prison.

At last, one of the guards halted outside the cell. Sisserou nearly launched herself at the bars, to beg for knowledge of the duel, its progression, and its victor, but instead of speaking to her, the man unlocked the cell gate and opened it wide for her to exit. Before she could question as to what was happening, Icarus stepped from behind the armed man. He announced, "I am here to escort you to freedom, under the direction of Lord Nasher."

"Icarus!" Sisserou cried, leaping from her cage and into his arms. While the guard locked the vacant cell behind them, Sisserou hugged her brother's arm, relieved immensely as they headed for the exit. She implored, "Gods, Icarus, how did you come so quickly from Luskan? How did you even know I was imprisoned here?"

"I was trading hexes with a warlock in Ember," he explained with a smile, "Since the city has been rebuilt by Luskan agents, it's garnered quite the reputation as a center of occultism and Hosttower politics. All dealings occur under the surface, naturally. The city tavern was abuzz with the recent events in Neverwinter."

"Surely news could not have traveled that quickly that I was imprisoned under suspicion of the demon girl's murder," Sisserou anticipated. Icarus nodded, a sly smirk sparkling on his mouth.

"Ah, well, it advantageous of the demonologists of the Black Cult of Amn that we commune with the demons we do," he explained, chuckling morbidly, "To summarize, a handful of cocky wizards had been drawing summoning circles on the bar top at the tavern, and calling up demons out of the bar. It was a hoot, until one of them got quite furious that we were disturbing it at such a time of diplomatic strife, whenever the death of one Miss Rialnah threatened to disrupt a certain demon prince's designs. I've never had a ball of hellfire chucked at my forehead so hard in decades."

Sisserou raised a quizzical brow, "I'll never be so grateful that you were drunk when I needed you most. But how did you manage my release? Surely Lord Nasher was not receptive to a Luskan."

He explicated, "He is whenever that _Luskan_ is a favorite of the Hosttower mages. Your lord isn't about to pick another fight with Luskan, and we with Neverwinter. I merely flourished my trade contracts, sealed with the Hosttower stamp of approval, and requested your freedom."

Icarus led Sisserou into the central hall of the castle, but immediately tugged her arm and pulled her into a side chamber, putting his index finger to his lips to advise her quietness. From beneath the black folds of his cape, he produced witch's robes, placing them in her hands with a whispered, "For the Canary has yet to fly in the light of Neverwinter's day."

"Icarus…" Sisserou murmured, but he only grinned, disappearing into the darkness of the chamber. A moment passed, and thinking he'd left her, Sisserou took one step towards the door. Before she took a second step, he reemerged from shadow, accompanied by the brown-cloaked Alice Reinhardt. Thrilled to see her, Sisserou locked her arms around the medium and muffled a shout into the coarse wool at Alice's shoulder. The witch exclaimed, "Alice, I feared you'd been captured as well."

"While I am not proud of my associations to the Black Cult, they kept me from the dungeons," The medium admitted. Icarus placed a hand on each woman's shoulders, leaning in close. Alice counseled, "We must hurry, Lady Dianarca. I feel the demon's aura returned to our city. She no doubt seeks the knight."

"The duel-" Sisserou recalled frightfully. Icarus comfortingly smiled.

"Return as she may, the powers of good have gained the upper hand. Perhaps you'd both be best to assure the paladin fairs the same." Icarus suggested. Alice nodded to Sisserou. The medium glanced up at the demonologist, and back to the witch, before parting to await the latter outside. Left alone to themselves, Sisserou grasped her brother's hands.

"I cannot repay you for what you have done for me," she whispered.

He answered, "All I ask for in return is a clean slate, despite our history."

"And you shall have it," Sisserou agreed. The demonologist parted from her grasp, hesitating before he fled off into the evening. He stopped, paused, and turned to face his sister once more. Icarus pondered his thoughts for a time.

He said finally, "I have catalogued many individual demons throughout my career. Axarthys was one of the spirits whose history and hauntings I studied tirelessly. Before her legion was officially contracted as ambassadors to the planes, she haunted the mortal realm like any other entity. She would appear as a ghostly woman in most documented hauntings, making it nearly impossible to distinguish her from the ghosts of deceased mothers and sisters protecting their still-living broods. Those she haunts were receptive to her roaming spirit, until objects begin to move of their own volition, nails scrape under beds and inside walls, and the odor of smoke permeates the home without a natural source. Then she was expelled from the home, by spirit hunters or priests, and was condemned to the next haunt, and eventually, to the duties of emissary under demon lords' commands."

"You commiserate with her, don't you?" Sisserou whispered.

Icarus sighed forlornly, responding before he departed his sister. He uttered, "I do not pity any demon, only those people whose lives have been forever tainted by them. If only so she no longer prowls our world restlessly, I hope she finds peace."

-

The battle peaked, and Nevalle tumbled to the ground to avoid Casavir's hammer. While he was on the ground, Casavir again swung the weapon upwards. It swooped down on the knight's thigh as he attempted to scramble away, and his bone audibly crunched. Nevalle howled, snatching his leg with both hands, sprawled across the floor. Casavir's lip swelled with blood, and he wiped it away with a gloved hand, casting aside his hammer to brandish only his stiletto. The paladin clutched his side with his right hand, where he suffered three deep gashes. The chainmail once protecting the area dangled limply beneath his torn tunic, having been severed by Nevalle's sword. The silvery rings dripped scarlet.

Casavir trod slowly, excruciatingly, towards the fallen knight crumpled on the ground, entreating, "Stand, Sir Nevalle, and defend the honor of her Ladyship Emissary."

Nevalle fumbled towards the hilt of his blade strewn on the floor, but it was well out of his grasp. Snarling, he endeavored to crawl towards it on his stomach, to little avail. The closer he inched towards the weapon, the nearer the paladin approached. Nevalle clamored to his feet, and with an abrupt shout of misery, tumbled to the ground. His fractured thigh refused to support his weight; no measure of determination would forego his inability to stand on it. Desperately reaching for his sword, he snatched it by the blade, reeling it in and staining it with his blood. Propping himself up on the weapon, he huffed frantic gulps of air. He was losing the duel, and his life- and doubtless Axarthys's- would be forfeit. He wheezed, "Take my life, Casavir, but do not indict her Ladyship on charges I would surrender mine to discredit."

"I do not in the least doubt you, Nevalle," Casavir swore, the regret thick in his tone. He rested the tip of his knife on the knight's cheek, frowning with the sincerest of grief in his gaze, "But her Ladyship Emissary has stolen my child from me, and I cannot allow her plague of this world to continue. I am sorry that you named yourself her champion. Today… today you should know death, as the rite of the duel clearly states."

Nevalle turned his face towards his sword, cutting open his cheek on Casavir's extended knife. As he swung his arm out to knock the stiletto out of the paladin's hand, Casavir caught the knight's wrist, and lugged him to his feet, offering his shoulder to lean on. He said, "Enough death has come of this for Neverwinter to lose one its finest knights, and my closest brother in arms."

As he guided Nevalle towards the dais, a stampede of footsteps rushed towards them. Casavir lowered the knight to rest against the steps before the throne, and descended them to arrive in the company of his wife Sisserou and the medium, Alice. Their faces were pink with heat and their breaths thin with running. Sisserou glanced at the wounded knight, growling with an exhale, and gasped in frustration and fear, "I suppose you were too occupied smashing the bones out of Sir Nevalle's body with that damned hammer to remember that oh, yes! The Saintrowe child is dead. Her head was found on the altar of Tyr, and now the demon shall hunt us down the moment she knows of it. Casavir-"

"Sisserou!" Casavir exclaimed, "How did you-"

Sisserou interjected with a shriek between breaths, throwing her arms in gesture towards the knight, "_How_ are you going to rationalize to a demon that her child was brutally murdered, and now, you've beaten the entrails out of her champion? May I congratulate you on your brilliance? _Axarthys returns to Neverwinter as we speak._ Bar the damn door or something!"

Casavir darted past her, tugging on the iron gates and locking them into place. Alice followed, chanting quiet words that the paladin could only understand as a protection charm against demons. Casavir turned back, dashing to his wife as a cloud of white ectoplasm churned in the air above the gate. A black, silken mass fell from it, and when it landed, materialized into the form of Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Draped in fabric as dark and gossamer as shadow, she crept forth. Her shoulders were hunched, tense, and her bodily movements did not remotely resemble any human gesticulation. She reached up, removing the black plate of armor that covered the lower portion of her face. The demon wept blood in place of tears.

"My child was murdered. My post was revoked of me. Here I return now, _barred_ from my own plane, _forsaken_ of my station," she roared, her voice stripped of its melody for the raw cruelty of its demonic rasp. Nevalle released a sob of agony, the utter inhumanity of her slit-pupil gaze unbearable. The demon slinked towards them, her arms bent out of their sockets, and her steps deliberate and indistinct, as if she walked and glided in tandem. The room grew cold, the air heavy with her presence, and her voice lost all of its melancholy. She screamed, "_And I return to this!_"

"Tyr, pray for us," Alice whispered, watching as the demon crept to her defeated knight, standing over him. She flexed the sinew of her hands, the joints snapping as she bent her fingers feverishly out of their places. Nevalle wept, reaching out for her hand. Discounting his plea, she merely surveyed the extremity of his wounds, hardening her gaze. Casavir poised to attack her, Sisserou standing for safety behind him. The demon craned her neck up, cranked her shoulders backwards as her stare fell momentarily on the witch and the paladin.

"You are fortunate, _paladin_," she sneered, "If he contracts his soul to me, I may save him from the death he inevitably shall face from his wounds."

"_No!_" Casavir shouted in protest. Sisserou clutched him tightly, barring him from running to the knight's aid. Nevalle coughed, gasped as he summoned his voice. Again, Casavir objected, "_I spared your life, Nevalle! Do not cast it away by signing off your soul!_"

"_You have done him no favor, paladin_!" Axarthys shrieked, her body sinking into an almost predatory, animalistic posture.

"Axarthys…" Nevalle panted.

"_Nevalle!_" Casavir pleaded, struggling from Sisserou's grasp. He collected his hammer from the ground, bolting towards the demon. He brandished above her, prepared to strike her down. Before his weapon could meet with her skull, however, she dispersed into a mist. His weapon met with naught but smoke. He cursed in frustration, scouring the ceiling above him for her bodiless form. He provoked the demon, spitting her name. As he scoured for her, he heard Nevalle speak from behind him.

"My soul is yours, my lady," he swore, whispering, "Take it as you will."

Casavir rotated on his heels. In horror, he watched as the smoke coalesced into her demonic form, hunched over the knight. She combed her fingers through his hair, resting a comforting hand against his shoulder. _He was forever lost to that demon_.

"With your soul as payment, I promise you immortality, so long as you remain in my keeping," she murmured. He sobbed into her black gown whenever she leaned closer. At last releasing him, her legs crookedly standing, her spine cracking as she regained her posture. Without comment, she drifted down the dais, soaring from the throne room with the orchestra of supernatural voices and noises with her. The air lightened once more, and Casavir choked on tears that he ultimately suppressed.

"Sisserou, Alice," he called, "Fetch a cleric to heal his wounds. I shall remain with him."

The women needed no excuse to depart, shaken from the events. Alice unlocked the gate and lead Sisserou down the hallway, and out into Blacklake's plaza. Casavir observed the knight, fearful to approach him, as if he, too, would fall victim to the demonic, or worse, that Nevalle had become the very thing he lusted for. The knight parted his eyes, moaning as the pain persisted. It was as if the liveliness was drained of them, the chocolate brown of his eyes muted. They lacked spirit- they lacked a _soul_- and Casavir grimaced. He could not bear to look at them. It was not until Alice and Sisserou marched back into Castle Never, a cleric of Lathander in tow, that he realized it.

He should have killed the knight, and saved his soul.

-

_Author's Note_: Please inform me of any mechanical errors or plot holes that you notice- I didn't get the chance to edit this as fully as I would have liked, and appreciate your help. I hope you enjoyed the 13,991 words (that's 22 pages) of the latest installment!


	5. Diptych II, Part One

**The Black Canary: Diptych Two, Part I  
**

"Hell, or the devil, had had no power on thee."

-Marlowe's _Faust_

It felt weeks before he woke. There were moments that he was vaguely awake, or less drugged into a stupor, but he never attempted to open his eyes. Even when he had the strength, it was as if his lids would part to a nightmare, to hellish flames blazing around him, his nose assailed by the stench of sulfur and choked by blackish, volcanic smoke. He anticipated shadow, hell, the Abyss- and her. Axarthys sin Saintrowe.

But awaking to reality was far less dramatic than what Nevalle expected. His vision was greeted with the pale stone walls of a bedchamber, illuminated brilliantly with daylight pouring from windows taller than he stood, their sailcloth shades fluttering as the breeze outside poured in, wafting the scent of grass and dew with it. The sights and smells were unmistakably those of his ancestral estate, Swychcreste. Every suite of the castle was familiar to the knight, every paddock as recognizable to him from the window as if he strolled in them at that very moment. Indeed, nestled beyond the Neverwinter Wood, the city wasn't discernible from behind the grove of trees lining the farthest reaches of the estate.

_Neverwinter_! Nevalle remembered it, and a shooting pain in his leg reminded him of his displacement. He'd dueled, lost, and recalled only the face of his demon as he slipped into nothingness. Scanning the room, he was surprised when Casavir faded into his view. The paladin dressed in a simple tunic that poorly disguised the bandages beneath it. He was seated at the foot of the bed, a volume removed from the mantle tucked in his hand. He paid little heed to it, for the breeze- and not his fingers- flipped the pages restlessly.

"You no doubt wonder why you are no longer in Neverwinter," Casavir greeted. The knight pawed at his weary eyes, before dragging his torso up from the mass of pillows behind him. The paladin winced, cautioning, "I would move as little as possible, to save yourself the pain of your wounds. Do you… even recall what happened?"

The knight grumbled, "To put it rudely, you kicked my ass."

"I suppose it is difficult to forget being smashed with an exceptionally large hammer," Casavir chuckled nervously, scratching his head. His shoulders tensed, and he disengaged his gaze with the knight. Nevalle, sensing the paladin's unrest even in the dizziness of drugs coursing thickly in his body, growled quietly.

"I apologize for removing you from Neverwinter, but there was far too much spectacle. I brought you home, where your servants and family could oversee your healing. The Nine could not safely manage the fragility of the royal court if their primary concern was protecting you in your vulnerable state." Casavir explained softly. His tone lacked the professional finality so typical of the paladin, and the knight questioned his peer's report with a quizzical glare.

"You've clearly dealt me quite the physical blow, _Casavir_," he threatened between gritted teeth as a wave of pain tore through the numb blockade of pain medicines and healing potions, "And I believe you're failing to inform me about something."

The paladin frowned, repentant. He murmured, "Three days have passed since I defeated you at court. You have my apologies and my sympathy, Nevalle, but you were injured so badly that your mother, and I, felt it best that you remain sedated. Your leg was shattered, so badly that you cannot walk. And neither of us wanted you to attempt a search for, for _her_."

"_Casavir_-"

"Lady Saintrowe disappeared, Nevalle, right after you were brought here," Casavir admitted, standing from his seat to pledge at the foot board of the bed, "She hasn't been seen anywhere in Neverwinter's lands."

"_And you permitted her to leave?!_" The knight snapped. Casavir's response was interposed by a distinctively otherworldly cackle.

Axarthys manifested by the opened window, the fresh air tumbling through the drapes moistened with the pleasant chill of a fresh rain. Beyond the casement it was tranquil, soundless save for birdsong. Swathed in a gown greener than Eden, the demon's slender hands perched upon the window sill, as she craned her neck to gaze out upon the pastoral landscape. She chastised gently, "A demon is _never_ in need of human permission to carry out anything, knight of Neverwinter. I had matters to attend to in Waterdeep, and did not want you to think ill of me departing in time of your most desperate need of me."

Nevalle exhaled her name, sighing, "Please don't depart from me like that again."

"Do you fear that once more I'll abandon you for higher aspirations? Silence your concerns. Whilst your soul remains in my keeping you are at my disposal, and I am not rid of you yet." Axarthys callously hissed. The knight sank back defeated into his bed sheets, and Casavir hurriedly fled for the door. He uttered an anxious well-wish to his captain before closing the passage in is hinges with a resounding creak. Nevalle waited the span of a few minutes before he spoke, to assure that Casavir had left and that the sting of the demon's words would not poison his reply. Before he spoke, the demon did, saying, "Forgive my cruelty. I am… only angry with myself, and lash out at you unnecessarily. Out of greed I sought to keep you for myself, and now I am miserable for it."

"What you've done saved my life," he countered.

She sagged in a seat beside the window. Her back arched so that the ridges of her skeletal spine burst up through the open back of her gown. Axarthys elucidated, "I've concealed my true purposes in Neverwinter far too long, my knight. You see, I returned to Neverwinter on Graz'zt's orders to vie for your kingdom's throne, not for you. But when I arrived to find you here, my willpower… _faltered_. You were to be nothing but a diversion. Yet that excuse weakened with time as I realized that I loved you. Concurrently, I recognized what my love _stole_ from you- dignity, a family, a future, a soul. I would reap from you everything that a man aspires to if I loved you, and still I _continued_ to love you. I craved you, despite all that you would lose if you loved me."

Axarthys restlessly ascended from her seat, pacing the chamber. She paused at his bedside before once more strolling to the window, leaning out. The breeze lifted two loose tresses from the elegant knot of her bun, breathing life into the tendrils as they floated and danced in the wind. The demon tensed, bending her hands from their wrists to grasp the sill and lean further out into the air. She was clearly entrenched in her thoughts, yet in an instant she recoiled, alighting on the bed next to Nevalle. She seethed, "Demons know greed as well as any mortal, and are rendered no less excused whenever they succumb to it. Yet though we know it, and though we know it is wrong, we are powerless to refuse it. _Moments_ after declaring to my former lord that I cannot take the chance for human happiness from you, I condemn you. Why? Because my greed is _insatiable. _I _must _have you, I- I… _do _have you."

She withdrew into shadow, her limbs cracking as they uncoiled. Her knees caved in backwards, bending in the opposite direction as she slithered behind the drapery, observing as the sky outside darkened, swirling grey. The verdance of the landscape dazzled like a peridot against black velvet. Axarthys extended a green-sleeved arm to the sill, her stormy skin providing a staunch, colorless palette for the color of her gown to glitter in its rich brightness. Distant thunder pounded, increasingly descending on the estate. The demon derisively remarked, "A storm is coming."

"Indeed, and you are a fool to brave it alone," The knight chastised. The demon emerged from concealment, her eyes brimming with dry distress. Nevalle lifted an arm, his fingers reaching for her across the room. She approached, crumpling into the blankets beside him, her forehead hidden in the crook of his neck and her arms locked around his waist. The velvet of her gown immersed the white sheets in a coating of plentiful verdure. Bruised and damaged as his arms were, he enveloped her in them. She nestled against his shattered leg, sending immobilizing pain through his body, but he did not rebuke her. Instead, he grasped her tighter, clenching his jaw from the pain and allowing the sedatives to overcome him. Before he succumbed, he pledged into her ear, "Condemning yourself to the fault alone-"

"-Negates your love, and diminishes its fault, for having mutually brightened the lantern that illuminated the path to this damnation," she finished, rasping, "Yes, I am wrong to forego your fault in this, yet I rebuke myself only because I am a diplomat and see clearly the precarious state my love puts your fortune in."

"My lady, you forget that in my world, lords and not their wives control the fate of their houses. Stay with me, and it is_ I_ that shall shoulder the stupidity of our union."

"Nevalle?"

"Axarthys?"

"My… my, my grasp on humanity is abating, and the Abyss's hand clamps tighter around its prisoner, asphyxiating me," she confessed, "Even my voice, once as sweet as any maiden's, reverts to the guttural rattle of a demon's speech. I've lost all ability to emulate human conduct, unable to control my joints from bending as they should not for mortals. If I cannot control myself, I fear that I will put _your_ soul in peril."

"Knowing your concern alone is assurance that you retain your compassion." He yawned, tucking the demon beneath the coverlets.

"That is ill assurance to me." She muttered.

After he'd fallen asleep, Axarthys spoke his name aloud to hear the coarseness of her once-lovely voice. She tried to laugh, but where music once sprang from her wine-painted lips now only a preternatural screech emerged. Her lower lip trembled, as she tolerated a lone tear to slip from her pink eyes. The Abyss called to her, stripping her of her decency of character to bait her back into its hellish depths, to once more take up arms against devil-kind. Burying herself under her knight's arm, she heard the tanar'ri shrieking in her ears, demanding her to relinquish her humanity. Axarthys knew that the Blood War drew to a precarious close, and in the collapse of demon-kind to follow, she would inevitably fall victim to baatezu conquest.

The demon begged Tyr in the silence of her prayers to spare her knight.

-

Deep within the coils of Azzagrat, sheltered in the silvery towers of his stronghold, Graz'zt never anticipated Asmodeus's aspect to stroll into his armory. The crimson-swathed devil glided into the chamber with a disparaging expression of dissatisfaction etched onto his face. Graz'zt dropped the cuirass in his hands, and both fiends remained silent until the metallic clatter of the armor's fall ceased.

"Preparing for war so soon?" Asmodeus inquired. Though they were not a taunt, Graz'zt responded to the words with a prolonged, combative snarl.

"Indeed," the demon spat, "For the daughter is dead, and I hold no sway over the mortal kingdom. If that weren't unfortunate enough, my emissary grows increasingly soft of heart. I've released her from my service. Better to surrender the Neverwintan throne and face your armies then employ such a pathetic whelp in my court."

Asmodeus frowned calculatedly, lifting the armor from the floor. He extended it to Graz'zt, who snatched it from his hands. The devil suggested, "Without an heir, the kingdom is weak. By all accounts, now would be the most opportune moment to strike and seize the throne. If you are concerned about the competence of your emissary, perhaps you should send your second-hand, Verin. I think no demon in the Abyss more capable at politics than he."

Graz'zt growled, sequestering a thin rapier from the weapons shelf. He twirled the blade in his hand lightly, examining its hoary surface as he replied scathingly, "Why do you lend your aid? If I succeed in my conquest, you will not declare war on Azzagrat and infiltrate my realm. There is so much to gain at hand."

"Is there?" Asmodeus inquired, "My military's resources are widespread as is. I have far grander schemes in mind than the mere satiation of my devil's desire to slay demons. If _that_ were my goal, I would have never approached you with an offer of aid at all."

"Then I see no reason why you would threaten me with war at all." Graz'zt countered.

"If I am associated with such failure, then my aptitude falls under question, and the consequences of that happening again could be another upheaval of the political structure of the hells. I will not risk a second Reckoning over such trivial matters as these," Asmodeus answered, crossing the room casually. He folded his arms over his chest, conceding, "So if you fail, lord demon, I may clear all suspicion of my involvement by reacting in the most severe manner at my disposal- open war- and pass it off as a Blood War offensive."

Unable to refute him, Graz'zt surrendered the weapon to its place on the rack. He concluded, "You will not regret lost forces, _devil_, because I will travel to Neverwinter myself. If I am unable to seize a single kingdom, then my ineptitude should rightly be tested by your armies."

-

Seated under the lofty arches of her palatial dining hall alone, Alucié Davane could not bring herself to eat the exquisite platter of food before her. It was terribly rude of a lady to do so, she knew, but etiquette was the least of her concerns. Her son and only child had returned to her, after months of absence from her home, beaten and clinging to his life's existence. She was convinced that he'd died when first he was carried through the passageway. The Countess's noble composure stood no power against the overwhelming sorrow that caved her knees in, and saw her begging for Tyr's mercy for her son at the paladin Casavir's feet. What cruelty of fate could allow her son to return as she'd prayed, yet dead? Crumpled on the ground, all that spared her poise was the bones of her corset, which held her blueblood torso up with whatever false composure she had left. Dyed red with the blood of her child, the beaded ivory of her velvet gown was no more valuable than the coarse canvas skirts of a peasant woman. No amount of finery had value to her if her son was dead.

The paladin cooed her, assuring that her son lived. But there was little life in a man sustained by a pact with a demon. To Alucié, her son was lost to her; present in her home, as she'd hoped for so long, in the worst of circumstances. Nevalle's blood still stained the white marble floors of the foyer, and his miserable cries echoed the halls like the moans of a ghost that had not yet been granted death's mercy. No, the son who so easily cast his soul to a demon was no son of hers, but an empty shell of a man foreign to her. Her child was a stranger to her, a fate worse than if he'd died. The Countess mindlessly halved slices of fruit with her knife, distracting herself until the servants eventually yielded their efforts to feed her ladyship and removed the plate. As she sliced through the last sliver of pear, the knife rapped against the fine china of her plate with an empty pang that resounded through the tall ceilings like a smothered, insignificant church bell.

When the door creaked, Alucié expected her servants, and set her knife on her plate for them to remove it. But in their place, a woman floated through the chamber, and seated herself a few chairs' length away from the Countess. She rested two emerald-clothed arms on the tabletop, gazing purposefully at the human.

"I apologize for my absence," she submitted quietly, "It is not proper of a woman so deeply involved with the fate of your son to have abandoned her duties here. I am her Ladyship Emissary."

"Axarthys," The Countess clarified aloud, sweeping a loose lock of graying blonde hair over her ear anxiously. The demon, unblinking and frightening motionless, did not respond. Alucié swallowed her anxiety, stifling the fury she bore the demon. If she were to endure this crisis, it would be with whatever dignity she had left. She stood, and the demon followed suit, grasping her hand fleetingly. The chill of the demon's skin was so acute that the woman recoiled gracefully but quickly, shivering when their handshake ended. The woman said, "I am Countess Swychcreste, Lady Alucié Davane. I hope I have the pleasure of being the first to introduce you to the Swychcreste estate, and the opportunity to extend our hospitality to you."

The demon attempted to smile, but sadness prevented her from doing so. Instead, she drifted back into her seat and murmured, "My kind rarely receives such a warm welcome. My appreciation of your gratitude is sincere, though your mercy renders me more shameful of my recent… faults. I fear I have more to apologize for than my absence, my lady."

"You are free to speak it." The Countess prompted. The demon cast her eyes aside, wincing faintly.

"I have suffered greatly for the foolishness of contracting your son's soul to me," she uttered, "Knowing my pain, I cannot begin to imagine the misery a mother must feel in the same circumstances. If it offers you any solace, I've endured such regret over my actions as I've never known before. My lady, I cannot heal, or ease a human's death. The only manner of saving a life as I knew how was to-"

"-I know what occurred," Alucié interceded, sighing, "It is a lady's duty to forgive those who implore her to, but you may understand the… _complications_ in so doing for this particular case. I cannot know if I judge your character incorrectly, yet despite the inherently evil nature of your kind, I feel that your regret is sincere. However, understand that in light of my son's recent lack of foresight the viability of our noble house hinges on my treatment of the issue. If I forgive your actions, then I too bend to your will, and my reputation will be questioned. My ladyship, perhaps it is I who should beg your forgiveness for being incapable of pardoning you."

"You've considered this quite deeply." Axarthys flatly stated. Alucié nodded weakly.

"Amongst other things, yes," she admitted, "Politics distract me from my son's suffering. Indeed, he shall live, but the cost agonizes me."

The woman lifted her napkin to her cheek, daubing the tears that pooled in her muted blue eyes. Axarthys crept closer to the woman, explicating as she knelt before her, "I traveled to Waterdeep with hopes that my former employer, an accomplished wizard, could provide me with a solution to Sir Nevalle's deplorable condition, and undo what I have done. Once enacted, fiendish pacts cannot be voided unless terms are broken; the simplicity of my pact does not allow for this route to be taken, and so my employer suggested a more- more, dire solution. My lady, the only available resolution is to be sought north, in Icewind Dale."

"Icewind Dale!" Alucié exclaimed, leaping from her seat. Axarthys stood once more, nodding succinctly in response. The noblewoman kneaded her brow, fretting, "My son would not survive the journey there, nor the stay. This time of year the weather-"

"Your son isn't traveling with me," Axarthys rejoined, irritated. She frowned, melancholy carved into the elegant arc of her lips, "Countess Davane, I sojourn to Icewind Dale to end the pact in the only possible manner, to _die_, far enough away that your son won't attempt to rescue me. With my death his soul will be returned to him."

Alucié wavered in disbelief, shaking her head, standing beside her chair. She voiced, "But my son…"

"Would suffer a broken heart, yes, but as you concede yourself, Nevalle has no future with a demon, and I have no future as a domestic housewife wasting away in the mortal vale or any hope to regain power in my home realm. My lord Graz'zt ejected me from my station, and now two demon lords of the highest repute in the lower planes have forsaken me. I am scorned in the Abyss and hated amongst mortals. I have exhausted all doors of opportunity."

"And so you would end your life to save my son?" Alucié breathed. Axarthys scoffed.

"Simply because my surname contains 'saint' hardly renders me one," the demon coldly replied, reeling away from the woman to stand at the far end of the other table. Her back facing Alucié, the human could see the demon's shoulders trembling visibly beneath the green finery, and watched as she unlocked her arms from their joints to clutch them tighter to her chest. Tiptoeing to Axarthys, Alucié tenuously placed a hand on the demon's back. Axarthys lifted her chin over her shoulder, to reveal silent tears spilling from the otherwise haughty, emotionless features of her face. She seethed through tears, "If there is a happy ending for your son and I, then I have no faith in this world."

"I do not know if he will be able to handle this news in his current state," the noblewoman gently implied.

"No," Axarthys agreed, "Nor did I ever intend to inform him. I request from you only one more night in his presence, my lady."

"Granted," Alucié responded, proposing, "Return to him as soon as you can. I shan't steal you from him for a moment longer."

The demon wandered off to the castle halls without thanks.

-

_Author's Note_

I completely rewrote this chapter at least three times, abandoned it for a few weeks, and then finally nailed it (without editing it for grammar, so please pardon any mechanical dupes :) ). As I'll be studying abroad for the rest of January, I wanted to post at least the first part of Diptych II so that I could finish rewriting and polishing the second half when I returned.

Thanks so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed. Happy New Year!

JCB Valah


	6. Diptych II, Part Two

**The Black Canary: Diptych Two, Part II**

Without Casavir, the halls of Sisserou's world fell into a lifeless stupor. Each stone of every corridor was no longer a vital fragment of the fabric that made up her home, but a lonely brick constructing the dank prison of her world. Neverwinter's dungeons brimmed with more life than her home did, and though Nasher had cleared her name of any wrongdoing, she would have happily remained locked away beneath Castle Never if it meant remedy to her solitude. Though she was free and relieved of any suspect in Rialnah's death, Sisserou remained a captive of the silence of her home, and the memories of Rodric's laughter echoing her home. Until Casavir sorted out the heir crisis in Neverwinter and saw to it that Nevalle hadn't surrendered his miserable existence to the underworld, Sisserou had only her magical tomes as company.

Rememorizing her incantations, blessedly, proved successful. Her exceptional progress reignited her zeal and quashed her despair. Knowledge was no cure to her pain as she effortlessly breezed through dusty spell books and proved her magical fluency. Knowledge was merely a distraction until she reached the final, most relevant and challenging volumes in her collection. Standing over the elaborately-bound, black-leather tome, Sisserou tenuously stroked the gilded pages as she flipped past the lengthy introduction and came upon the colorfully painted cover page. The inked image depicted a magician, encircled by rings of protective sigils, thrusting his illuminated staff into the torso of a fallen devil.

The witch closed the cover, laying a resolute hand over the book. Icarus once insisted that Sisserou learn to defend herself against devils and demons if she was to be safe amongst the black magic practiced by the Arcane Brotherhood, but she'd resisted. Sisserou was an earthly witch, concerning herself with humbler manipulation of the worldly, and harbored a healthy fear of the divine and the diabolical. Only after immense persuasion by Tyrran priests did Sisserou become a Chalice knight and combat demons, and even then, it was terror more than passion that drove her to slaughter the underworld's hellish hordes. She'd witnessed the supernatural rot the hearts of her brethren and tear her from her family. Sisserou had right to fear demons.

"And once more, I find history repeating itself," Sisserou muttered bitterly to her tome. Banished from Luskan, she retreated to the Tyrrans and became a warrior against evil. Now torn from her son, and in a lesser regard her husband, she retreated into her spell books, running like a frightened pup with its tail tucked back to her origins as a witch. It was a cruel destiny, indeed, that she reverted to the Black Canary when again her family was in peril due to otherworldly machinations.

"_For the Canary has yet to fly in the light of Neverwinter's day."_ Sisserou huffed at her brother's words. He must have foreseen this, she thought. The witch reopened the spell book, tracing the image imprinted on the opening page tenderly. She turned to the first incantation, murmuring it under her breath and then reading the title of the spell aloud.

"Spell for the expulsion of spirits," she uttered, "_How appropriate_."

Raising her hands, she mimicked the tutorial in the spell book. Green light glowed weakly from her palms, and then flickered out. Sighing, she momentarily glanced at the image on the page of a witch with hands flaming white with purifying power. Her results were not nearly as impressive. Had Casavir been there, he would have joked at her failure and then studied the book himself, to offer her whatever advice he could from the spells he couldn't read inside the ancient tome. No, she didn't need his advice, she mused. She craved his encouragement. Closing the book and pushing it across the tabletop, Sisserou sauntered over to the window and peered out onto the darkening landscape, as the pinkish sunset began to warm the cool cobalt of the diurnal sky.

"Casavir," she whispered aloud, sighing, "I wish you were home."

-

The demon stalled. How could she possibly, and without tears, profess her impending death to him? How could she tell him, whenever he begged for her not to leave him, whenever he waited- _wasted_- over a decade of his life for her return?

She paced the halls of his home, cloaked in shadow and invisible to the servants populating the snaking corridors, brooding over the inevitable. The demon revised her speech in her mind repeatedly, until words in the Common tongue degenerated into the guttural growl of the Abyssal language, and until words could no longer represent thoughts. She chastised herself; she was an _ambassador_, a diplomat; words were to the demon as music was to a bard, the conduit of her work and the essential tool of her career. And yet words failed, where trembling lips and unstoppable tears prevailed. At last she surrendered, and before the sun sank beneath the horizon, she materialized at his door, swathed in black silk that left only her face and hands bare.

"You've been sorely missed," he murmured in greeting. Despite the miserable irony of his words, Axarthys was relieved to see him seated at the edge of the bed, his back arched as he leaned on his knees. She feebly wandered to his side, cringing as her joints rigidly imitated a human gait.

"A steady diet of healing potions and medicinal elixirs certainly restored you," she distantly replied. His smile was fragile.

"I'm feeling very well," he responded. Axarthys knelt down and gazed up into his eyes.

"That would be the narcotics working properly," she frowned.

"I never said I felt _euphoric_," he corrected. The demon cackled lightly, slithering into bed next to him. She stretched across the blankets and rested her head in his lap, nestling her cheek against his thigh. He petted her white hair, running his thumb down the length of her silk-clad neck as he warmly professed, "I'd wed you now if I were able."

"That's a reckless thing to say," she retorted, far fiercer than she intended to. Clearly hurt, Nevalle stopped stroking the demon's tresses and recoiled, replacing his hands on his knees. Axarthys winced, in realization of the austerity of her statement, and wove her arms gingerly around his neck. She apologized, "I speak hastily."

"There is something wrong, isn't there?" he frowned. The demon's stare was quizzical as the human turned away from her, his back hunched away from her as he broke from her embrace. Inching towards him, she leaned on his shoulder and placed her lips to his ear.

"Indeed, and I will break your heart with it," she admitted. He sneered, but beneath the scorn in his face there was suppressed sorrow palpable in his expression.

He replied, "You've _already_ broken my heart, Axarthys. I spent ten years without you, and now I am no closer to assuring our future. The child we shared is gone. There is nothing that can compel you to remain with me. I doubt even contracting my soul to you will bring you any closer to me, to- to any conceivable future beyond the fleeting and volatile time we share."

Millennia of existence hardened her emotional core, and in recent years her time in the Hells had served only to strengthen her composure. She was too world-weary for tears, too hopeless and too exhausted to mourn what she would have to inform him of. The demon exasperatedly responded, "That is what I seek to _explain_, Nevalle, that I am prepared to free us both from the Abyss's clutches so that we can live together _safely_. I would easily remain at Swychcreste forever; it is Eden here, but whilst devils are at my back and my offspring are slaughtered, how, how can I _live_ in that terror? There is no life lived in fear."

"Axarthys-"

"Nevalle, I must liberate your soul from my grasp. So long as you belong to me, Graz'zt will stalk us and Asmodeus will hunt us. I mourn the life we might have shared, because… the only way I may ever free you- Nevalle, is to- die."

"_You can't_!" He shouted, urgently grabbing her wrists to pin her to his lap, "I won't allow you to leave me, Axarthys, I _refuse_ to let you from my keeping again, let alone permit you to die."

"I cannot live knowing I have taken your soul," she protested. Before he could scream at her in response, Axarthys arose from her lap, her eyes stained with a fresh outpouring of silent tears. She put a finger to his lips, cupping a hand around the back of his head as she said, "If I die in the mortal world, I can be reborn in the Abyss, and return to you-"

"_When_?!" he shrieked, "In another decade? In a century? When I am decaying in my grave? I want you now, Axarthys, now that I am immortal and can spend forever with you."

"You did not _choose_ immortality," she corrected, "I demanded it of you."

"And had I the choice, my answer would have been no different!" He yelled, smothering her frozen lips with a kiss before she could contest his words. When he drew away from her, the tears streaming down her face were frustrated ones.

"Nevalle," she pleaded, "If I die, I can be free from this…endless cold."

The knight stared at her, and then loosed his grip on her. She sat up in front of him, the black silk of her dress collecting around his legs. He stroked the fluid fabric as he clenched his jaw, releasing a long breath.

"That's why you want this, isn't it? You truly don't want to free my soul." He inquired gently. She didn't respond, so he goaded, "Axarthys?"

"I will give anything to free you of your soullessness. But can I deny my _own_ advantages in this? I cannot. Over a decade of persistent misery have I spent, unable to savor the heat of a fire or the warmth of the sun. So long as I am forced to live in misery, I cannot live at all. Fear? I've no energy to combat fear. No, it is misery that I seek to extinguish. I am selfish for wanting it, but I've ceased to care about morality, whenever my suffering is far much more pressing. This is my only option, because it is the only option available to both liberate you and me," She muttered. The knight savored a lengthy look at her shivering fragility, and the cyanotic hue of the flesh of a languishing hypothermic. He could not remember her tepid as she slept beside him. Pitying her, he collected her in his arms slowly, expending his strength to gather her in his grasp and bury his chin in her snowy locks.

"Is this the only option?" he softly asked. When he felt her nod beneath him, he then said, "Then you must swear me two oaths. First, you must reestablish your pact with me when you return. If it is my choice to trade my soul for immortality, then you cannot deprive me of it. Second, you must wait to… to die, until I've regained my strength enough to take your life myself."

She nodded more decidedly, and the knight lowered her into the covers where he laid down beside her. The demon curled into a fetal position at his chest, and continued to knot her body tightly together until her joints snapped and her fingers dislocated nervously. Winding her in the sheets, Nevalle breathed in the smoky scent of her skin, enjoying those dwindling moments with her, until he could see her again. He didn't know that Axarthys had no intention of returning to him.

-

It was at Darmon's insistence that Casavir scaled the tower into Nasher's chambers. Free of his armor, he ascended the steps easily to the crumpling noise of his pressed cotton tunic rustling against suede breeches. The pleasant crackle of torch fire casting light on his path cured the numb silence of the stone halls, and soothed the deadened anxiety reverberating in the paladin's heart. When he was called to Nasher's side, the issue was always drastic. Minor matters of the state were communicated by Darmon alone to the council of the Nine; never by Nasher. It meant that whatever was the matter, it was substantial.

Casavir entered his lord's chambers and bowed succinctly, smiling mutedly at Darmon. Nasher, withered and propped against at least three rolled coverlets and two large pillows, faintly nodded in acknowledgment of his knight's presence. He uttered feebly, "I do not have the energy to skirt the issue. I must be frank."

"My lord," Casavir urged, bowing his head reverently. He heard Nasher sigh audibly.

"I cannot rule from this bedchamber any longer. Neverwinter needs leadership, and to replace me," Nasher rasped, "I have chosen Sir Nevalle."

Casavir shook his head violently, "My lord, he has changed-"

"-But we cannot deny that he has served our city more than any of us has," Nasher protested weakly, coughing before he yielded, "He has been… wayward, I understand. However far he strays, however, he will not forego Neverwinter's safety to satisfy his own fleeting desires."

"You think he will change, then?" Casavir retorted, throwing his arms into the air, "I cannot believe this. You would place a man on the throne with _no_ soul, with _little _morality, who has devoted himself to a demon?"

"That is why we've summoned you," Darmon quietly replied.

"Oh! Is that why, the demon? Do _not_ ask me to hunt this monster down," Casavir demanded irately, "It is Nevalle's concern, not mine, _or _the state's. I will _not_ involve myself or my wife in these schemes any longer. We have already lost our son because of them, and our Knight Captain perished on that creature's blade."

"_Listen to me_," Darmon firmly ordered, and Casavir's voice faded into silence. Darmon approached the paladin and clamped his hands on his shoulders, saying, "We had no intention to involve you. We need you to remain here in Neverwinter, should the city need you. It is your wife whose talents we require."

"We know it is no rumor that Sisserou is a witch," Nasher said. Casavir gnawed on his lip warily, glancing between his lord and his peer.

"Alice Reinhardt, the medium, came to us this afternoon with report that Axarthys sin Saintrowe plots to flee Neverwinter. She did not know what would come of this, but whatever the case, we cannot risk Axarthys escaping Neverwinter under such mysterious circumstances. Either she remains under the watchful eye of our city, or she must be eliminated. If it is true that Lady Dianarca is a witch- and I pray she is- then she and the medium will be able to find the location of these fiends and kill Axarthys, or offer her amnesty so long as she returns as a permanent prisoner of Neverwinter," Darmon explained. Casavir frowned, considering Darmon's offer.

"Perhaps you feel that embarking on such a task will put you and your wife at risk," Nasher murmured, "But let Sisserou make her own decision on the matter."

"Neverwinter cannot rely on another witch as much as it can on Sisserou. She is not volatile, not selfish. She has served our people loyally, and I have no doubt that in this task, she will continue to do so and either bring the demon back, or send the demon back to hell."

After a lengthy consideration, the paladin cautiously responded, "I shall ask her, but if she says no, then you must find someone else to accompany Alice."

He bowed and turned to leave, before Darmon's voice called him back.

"Sisserou's devotion to the Nine has been waning," Darmon noted, "But she needn't choose between her path as a mage and her loyalty to our order. Please let her know that her talent is forever welcomed by the Nine."

Casavir nodded, "She will be pleased to hear that."

-

Before dawn broke, Axarthys fled Swychcreste. She afforded Nevalle no goodbye. He would have foiled her departure.

Slithering into the green velvet of her warmest gown, Axarthys abandoned her black silk number at the foot of the bed, where the human would be sure to find it and be certain of her disappearance. Calculatedly facing towards the door, she exited without glancing back at the slumbering knight. If she paused, if she permitted her emotions foothold over her logic, she would never be able to end her misery or buy his freedom. Axarthys refused to struggle against the lasting memories of the past any longer. She deserved freedom from her anguish, and the knight- who she loved still- from sinking with her ship. Axarthys, though a demon, would not make him die alongside her. The Abyss had not influenced her selfishness to that degree.

After a lengthy sojourn into the tangled wood between Swychcreste and Neverwinter, Axarthys stopped. She seated herself on a fallen tree beside a babbling creek, flattening her gown over the coarse bark she perched on. Branches snapped as a man trod towards her through the forest, his leather armor crunching as he proceeded to take her arm in his. Absanoch, draped in a cloak trimmed with fox fur, acted as cold as usual. But there was a distinct glitter in his eye, beneath the burning ember of his orange eyes.

"I am pleased that we could reach an agreement," he announced emotionlessly, "Asmodeus will be glad to know that you've surrendered yourself without issue. To remove the last remaining agent of Graz'zt from Neverwinter is conducive to ending the demon lord's attempt to seizing the city. And to have you slain so far from Graz'zt's lingering eyes-"

"I am aware of the advantages my death will secure for your lord, thank you," Axarthys curtly responded, "After averting Graz'zt's attention to grappling for control of Neverwinter- which he cannot do without my aid- Asmodeus may now focus on the siege of Zelatar to win the Blood War for the devils, however vain these endeavors are. Spare me the explanation, Absanoch; you forget that _I _am the diplomat, and you the petty soldier."

The devil smugly grinned, changing the subject, "What did you tell the knight? You left him for a number of days to orchestrate your death with me."

"I said that I was in Waterdeep," she replied.

"We _were_," Absanoch flatly responded, "I thought you'd have a more creative excuse, _diplomat_. No matter. Waterdeep will be a distant thought whenever we've arrived in Icewind Dale."

"During times of war, Asmodeus is as cowardly as ever, appearing as far from Neverwinter as he feels secure. Pitiful," Axarthys scoffed as she and the devil began off through the wood, mounting two black horses tethered to a tree in the distance. The demon asked, "Has devil magic grown so weak that we must travel as mortals do?"

"If we travel by magic, Graz'zt will know and track down our location," Absanoch replied, grinding his teeth as he spurred his horse and trotted with Axarthys in tow. Confident that the demon would not escape under his watch, the devil left the demon's horse untied from his saddle. Axarthys, riding nobly beside him, threw back her head so that her loose, sleek tresses fluttered in the breeze as the two emerged from the forest, galloping north towards Icewind Dale. Absanoch anticipated her to be hesitant, to be afraid, hunched over her saddle like a frightened child weeping all the way to Asmodeus.

But she was liberated, joyful; her head held high as she breathed in the cool air and embraced her fate. Absanoch would not enjoy killing a frightened victim, not in Axarthys. No, she would come out the powerful one in this, unbound from the politics that kept him hostage to Asmodeus. Absanoch would be the flame to engulf the phoenix, and he loathed it.

-

From her window, Sisserou saw Casavir and Alice trotting over the horizon. As perplexed as she was to be greeted with Alice's presence, her joy to see her husband compelled her so quickly down the stairs that she did not hesitate to presume why the medium would come. She stood outside the entry to her home and called warmly to the paladin. He greeted her only with a sad sigh.

"Nasher is in need of you," he announced.

"Axarthys has fled Swychcreste," Alice said, "And we need to hunt her down.

-

Sisserou, Alice and Casavir settled at a circle table in the center of the Swychcreste library. Surrounded by towering shelves stacked with beautifully bound and gilded volumes, the afternoon sun sparkled through the lofty windows of the room and casting a rich light through the dusty air where the old collection was housed. Casavir and Alice had disclosed the case at hand to Sisserou. Versed in enough magic to know the implications of the situation at hand, Sisserou accepted the task of hunting down the demon, and had begun to express her opinion when the door to the study creaked. The trio's deliberations ceased whenever Nevalle entered and sank into a chair across from them.

"Lady Davane informed me that you had news about Axarthys," he muttered acidly. Sisserou huffed.

"Unless you desire Alice and I to continue _without_ your input, then we shall track down your demon and smite her ourselves," The witch scoffed, "Do not sound so irritated. Spare us a few moments of your time, knight, and we shall be gone from your estate."

"You already have the benefit of knowing Axarthys's fate," Casavir added gently. The knight crawled from his chair and paced around the circular table, brooding.

"I am aware of what will happen. Axarthys planned to kill herself and be reborn in the Abyss," he answered, "She was suffering her curse, _and_ mine, too much to risk living in misery any longer. It isn't very difficult to comprehend. What _I _do not understand is how the three of _you_ came across this information, why it concerns you, and why you must kill Axarthys yourselves."

"In a vision, I saw the demon flee Neverwinter on horseback with the devil-prisoner, Absanoch," Alice revealed. Nevalle's eyes narrowed, skeptical.

"You are a medium, not a psychic," he said.

She agreed, "I am, but as a medium, I detect the activity of spirits. My vision was merely my subconscious ability to sense spiritual movement overriding my conscious thought. Absanoch and Axarthys were traveling too far from Neverwinter for my comfort; they were bound to the snow-lands, Icewind Dale. I fear that Axarthys's death is more complicated than merely her desire to rid herself the mortal coil, if that is plausible for a demon; I dread that her death is a political one, and the devil makes to make her demise perfectly clear to someone."

"Absanoch is an agent of Asmodeus, is he not?" Sisserou asked. Alice paused to reconsider her vision, affirming Sisserou's question with a succinct nod of her head. The witch continued, "Why would a demon want to publicize its death to a devil, specifically Asmodeus? Demons care nothing for dignity, but no demon in its right mind would ever willing sacrifice itself to devils. The Blood War courses too deeply in their veins to allow that sort of shameful death at the hands of the enemy."

"No, no, she would never throw her life away like that," Nevalle affirmed softly, leaning on a short shelf of books across from the table. He peered down at his feet, shaking his head, "Axarthys wouldn't-"

Interjecting himself, his head immediately lifted, and he regained his seat at the table. Freshly inspired, he replied, "Axarthys was recently an agent of Graz'zt, but she was dispossessed of her station. Perhaps… perhaps by allowing Asmodeus to oversee her death, she knew that the devils would use their supposed victory over Axarthys in order to tempt Graz'zt into combat with them."

Sisserou concluded, "Which either means that Axarthys wanted Graz'zt to pay for disowning her-"

"-Or she wanted Graz'zt to think she'd perished to permanently free herself from his ever-fickle interests," Casavir said, "Any demonic agent knows full well the wavering interests of their lords. It is likely that Axarthys feared falling back under Graz'zt's heel."

"In either case, the demon is playing this event to her every advantage," Alice ascertained.

"Then I don't see why it is necessary to 'hunt her down'," Nevalle shrugged, "I have enough experience to tell you fiends are volatile, but it seems that Asmodeus is predictable. There seems little for him to lose, or gain, for that matter, from changing Axarthys's fate."

"To permanently slay a demon so that it may be reborn, as Axarthys intends, means that the demon must perish in the Abyss itself," Sisserou said, smiling, "A fellow Chalice knight should know that."

"You were a –"

"Focus, my friends," Alice insisted, and the three companions turned to the medium. She folded her hands neatly atop the desk, saying, "Devils are much more calculating than we expect. Asmodeus remains many steps ahead of the demons, which is why- despite the lesser ratio of devils to demons- he is holding his own in the Blood War. Knowing this, we must proceed with caution. Asmodeus must open a portal to the Abyss somehow, a drastic move for any devil. Anything, and everything, could possibly happen."

"That is why Nasher needs Alice and I to go to Icewind Dale. If Axarthys lives, surely Asmodeus intended for her to, and that means a far wickeder plot could be under way. She must _both_ follow through and die or she must live to become our prisoner." Sisserou said.

"You and Alice?" Nevalle asked, "What about Casavir?"

"I must remain here. I cannot involve myself in any more of this," he regretfully said.

"Then I shall accompany Alice and Sisserou," Nevalle decided.

"We'll be perfectly alright on our own, thank you," Alice flatly responded.

"Two defenseless women facing monstrous fiends?"

"Honestly, Nevalle, women have been warriors for centuries," Casavir said, "Misogyny lost its popularity eons ago. Accompany them if you must, but I fear you'll be the one rendered weak at the sight of Lady Saintrowe. Perhaps it is in _your_ best interest to remain here as well."

"Chauvinist pig." Sisserou growled.

"I'm accompanying them," Nevalle grinded his teeth with frustrated finality, "If only to drive a sword through Absanoch's gut."

"Because he shared a dance with you _lady_ a while back?" Sisserou taunted.

"_Sisserou_," Casavir shouted, pounding his hands on the table as he stood. The witch nimbly slid from her chair and planted a kiss on the paladin's cheek.

"Meet me outside to wish me well on my quest, love," she said, diverting the paladin's anger, "Alice and I will depart promptly. We shall see how quickly the knight can polish his shining armor and equip himself for combat."

As the two women left, Casavir uttered, "Forgive her jeers. Beneath her sarcasm, she is vulnerable."

"As Sisserou shields herself with cynicism, Axarthys does with etiquette and silk dresses," Nevalle uttered in response, "All women are vulnerable underneath."

The knight exited to the towers, leaving only Casavir in the library. From the window, he could see Sisserou and Alice leading their steeds across the lawn, and arming themselves with chain shirts stored in their saddle bags. The paladin smiled as his wife mounted her mare and cantered around the grass yard, her ebony hair shimmering in the sunlight. She was savoring her last minutes of bliss before the storm, smiling and laughing gloriously before she galloped off into the tundra of Icewind Dale, and saw to it that Axarthys- nay, that the devils- were no longer a threat to Neverwinter. Perhaps there was something vulnerable in Sisserou, some intangible sensitivity that was masked by her exterior strength and vitality. But Casavir was free to doubt, at least in his thoughts, that Axarthys lacked Sisserou's dynamic nature. Beneath the cold manners, the prim gowns and endless wealth, Axarthys sin Saintrowe was hardened and calculating. She loved Nevalle only because she'd spent so long around mortals that she emulated them. Her love was not real, founded in no inner tenderness masked with outer strength. It was what made her a monster.

Casavir decided not to inform Nevalle of his inheritance of the throne until after Axarthys's fate was decided. If Axarthys wanted to die, she would, and Casavir was certain that the demon would never submit to being a prisoner of the state all over again. He respected her burning will to escape her cyclical relationship with Neverwinter. Knowing that Axarthys would die at any cost, he knew Nevalle would seek solace somewhere after her passing. Even if she was reborn, it could take weeks, months, years- perhaps decades, even centuries. Until she returned, if she ever did, Nevalle needed something to motivate him. And commanding the city-state from the throne of Neverwinter seemed a fairly substantial goal to live for.

Outside, Nevalle traversed the lawn clad in a silvery suit of armor atop a spotless palomino stallion. Alice, climbing into her saddle, waited alongside Sisserou as the knight approached and joined their number. Even in the magnificent daylight, Nevalle's armor only managed to shine half as much as Sisserou's scaly chainmail, her white, telltale, confident smile, and the polished black of her wavy tresses. She was divine, angelic, and Casavir could do nothing else but dash to her side and wish her well on her quest.

He feared nothing. He knew that he would see her again.

-

"Finally, Alice, you are aiding me in what I sought you out for initially," Sisserou cried out over the thunder of hoof beats as they rode, "You're seeing to the death of the demon Axarthys sin Saintrowe!"

"How absolutely delighted I am to fulfill my purpose," Alice dryly replied, brow quizzically raised, a glimmer of humor on her rosy lips. Her typically orderly, cropped blonde locks waved furiously in the breeze. She was awash with passionate purpose, liberated from the cool composure of her usual self. Perhaps it was the thrill of the hunt or the thought of the capture that motivated her. Sisserou had never seen the medium in finer form than when she was galloping horseback across the landscape, chasing the demon down and ensuring the future safety of the people of Neverwinter. Sisserou chastised herself for the selfishness of it, but she knew that if the demon accepted imprisonment over death, the witch would not grant her it. While Nasher was interested only in the safety of Neverwinter, and was unsure of the effects that Axarthys's rendezvous with death would have, Sisserou was certain that the demon was better off dead regardless. Offering amnesty to the fiend would only initiate the abusive relationship Neverwinter had with Axarthys sin Saintrowe all over again.

Nevalle's sturdy palomino had difficultly retaining pace with the palfreys ridden by Alice and Sisserou, but the witch was thankful for the distance. It meant that if she and Alice reached the site of Axarthys's meeting with Absanoch first, than they would be able to react quicker _against_ Axarthys than Nevalle would be able to rescue her.

_I was right. Chauvinist pig_, Sisserou bitterly thought, _He thinks that even demon women languish for him to bravely rescue them from danger._

Alice knowingly glance at her. She eased her steed into a canter, and gazed down at the earth before returning her eyes to Sisserou. The medium reported, "There are hoof prints here. We cannot linger far from them. Perhaps it is best that we rest for the night."

Sisserou tugged on her reins and permitted her mare to walk. She affirmed the medium's suggestion, agreeing, "Even if the fiends can travel all night, their horses clearly cannot. I doubt, for subtlety's sake, that they ride any nightmarish or otherworldly steed having boundless stamina."

"Can you be certain this is the case?" Alice asked. Sisserou shrugged.

"I can venture an educated guess. Supernatural animals do not usually leave hoof prints, and I doubt many people would be wandering into Icewind Dale this time of year, especially from this specific direction." Sisserou concluded. Alice smiled.

"Very good. We rest, then," the medium finished, swinging her leg out of the saddle and settling onto the soggy grass beneath her. Sisserou joined Alice, keeping hold of her horse's reins. She drove her short sword into the earth and twisted it into the dirt, tethering both steeds to it so they could graze. Nevalle, panting and leading his palomino towards them, furrowed his brow in irritation.

"We are not about to gain any ground on them by resting here idly," he announced.

"No, but if our horses collapse from exhaustion, we won't be getting anywhere far, anytime soon," Sisserou rationalized, digging into a saddle bag to procure a metal pan and a burlap satchel. Twirling her fingers over the pan, water bubbled up from the base. The knight and the medium exchanged curious glances, and then crept closer. Tearing open the top of the satchel, the witch shook out the contents of the bag, releasing a copious amount of uncooked rice into the water. Lifting the pan to eye level, Sisserou closely scrutinized the unprepared food, and then narrowed her eyes at her enraptured audience. The fingers of her opposite hand ignited with flames, and she began to heat the pan. The water boiled feverishly.

"Let me guess," the knight pondered, "That would be for the poor horses."

"_Your _portion will be if you continue moaning," Sisserou warned, and the knight pursed his lips distastefully. When the rice grains bloated with water and became an ivory white, Sisserou pressed the burlap against the front of the pan and drained the hot water into the grass, procuring forks from her sack. Extending the utensils to the knight and medium, and keeping one for herself, she hungrily feasted away.

"We should consider setting up camp," Alice suggested between bites, pointing to the sky with her fork, "We are no longer in Neverwinter's hospitable climate."

"Excellent idea," Sisserou said, ordering, "Nevalle, you go cut fire wood."

To her surprise, the knight didn't protest her suggestion. Instead, he relinquished his fork and immediately set off for the forest across the glen, sword in tow. Alice frowned, "We should have offered to accompany him."

"I have a feeling," Sisserou replied, "That he wouldn't be able to stomach that food after observing the demon's demise."

The medium sighed disappointedly, and the witch amended, "Alice, he should never have offered to come. It is his fault that the demon has plagued Neverwinter for as long as she has; he loves her, he draws her back to haunt us."

"There are individuals who are more susceptible to demonic attack by their very nature," Alice said, "Nevalle is one of those people."

"Because he is weak?"

Alice supposed, "No, not necessarily, but the stronger a susceptible individual is, the more likely they are to repudiate attacks made upon them. And make no mistake, this is an attack. No matter how benevolent Axarthys may perceive it, her interest in Nevalle is no different than the fascination another demon bears its victim. That is the tragedy in this, that Nevalle cannot distinguish love from what is effectively a haunting."

"Then we are obligated to promise Axarthys's death." Sisserou assumed.

"I cannot say so, no. The ridding as well as the contact of spirits is a matter of free will by the effected party. Does the inhabitant of a haunted home _desire_ to rid itself of spirits? Does the widow of a man _want_ to contact her deceased husband? Likewise, does Nevalle _want _his demon to die? Of course not," Alice quietly explained, facing the witch. Her eyes were somber and calm in their grey. She said, "I did not travel with you on this quest because I wish to defend the safety of one specific individual, but because this particular spirit is a threat to a community that is unable to make a unified decision on this spirit's fate, especially under its fracturing leadership."

Nevalle, with a load of branches crammed under one arm, trod through the wet grass towards them. Alice peered at him, then back at Sisserou.

"Another day?" Sisserou asked.

Alice grinned warmly, "Yes, certainly. I look forward to explaining the workings of the supernatural world with you."

Sisserou recalled her magical tome, with its images of witches defeating the forces of the netherworld, their staffs raised victoriously over the fallen fiends. Perhaps Alice's work- _her –_work- was no different than that of a paladin's after all. The witch smiled.

"We shall have to do that sometime," she concurred.

-

**Author's Note**: Another chapter down, one more to go. _Soliloquy _will be the next and final chapter. Keep your eyes peeled for the next installment, and love always- Valah


	7. Soliloquy

**The Black Canary: Soliloquy**

Around the summoning circle, the snows of Icewind Dale melted as flames blazed from the ground, the sharp stench of smoke hissing up from the Abyss. There was little a devil could do to smother its desire to leap into the magical circle and lay waste to the demons beneath. Absanoch's fangs sliced into his gums as he bit into the insides of his cheek, swallowing metallic-tasting blood to dull the scent of tanar'ri on his breath. A slender, crimson trail escaped his lips and leaked onto the weathered black leather of his armor, lost in the ebony oblivion of its oily surface. He turned his orange eyes on Axarthys sin Saintrowe, the languid demon pacing the pit, and snarled hungrily.

"I need to end this now, Asmodeus," he growled mutedly. Behind him, a towering, red-skinned devil glided around his servant, cruelly frowning. The lush burgundy of his velvet robes crunched in the melting snow, echoing the cracking of his shoulder bones as he rolled his arms in their sockets composedly and faced Absanoch. The assassin's polished boots agitatedly creaked.

"The demon has already ruined Neverwinter, with your expert aid," Asmodeus asserted, "Yet to allow the newly-appointed heir of the city to live would leave a margin for political stability, permitting a blank slate for Graz'zt to repeat his plan to overcome the city. This also serves us well because the further we plunge Neverwinter into upheaval, the more distracted Graz'zt becomes from the Blood War, heightening our chances at victory."

"_Chances_." Absanoch spat. Asmodeus had a smile in his scarlet eyes, but it never parted his lips. He remained stoic, nodding vaguely at his servant.

"The Abyss is fickle, Absanoch. Chance must always be a variable when an equation for success is to be constructed by baatezu kind in its attempt to overcome it. Chances also mean opportunity. With the naming of this new heir, the knight, we have gained the upper hand in an already unshakable plot." Asmodeus explained. The arch devil gazed at the demon as she paused to glance into the summoning circle and down into the pit that it had formed. A dretch latched its clawed fingers into the fading snow outside the circle as it attempted to enter the Material Plane, but Absanoch dove at the intruder and kicked its jaw, sending the creature reeling and shrieking back into the Abyss. Axarthys scoffed, lifting her chin.

"Unlike the Hells, Absanoch, the Abyss has endless legions to employ," she jeered, "For over ten years you and your _master_ have masqueraded as diplomats intent on ending this frivolous Blood War. Now I see that it was only a ruse to allow your people to defeat mine. I can only begin to imagine what will happen with the Abyss itself recognizes your goal. I think dretches shall be the least of your concerns then."

"I cannot wait to be rid of you." He snarled. She was motionless, her expression as blank as the devil's once had been. Just as Absanoch grew restless with the close proximity of the Abyssal portal, Axarthys became increasingly subdued and controlled. Her mind's eye was cleared of the mists that had driven her to forgo all the behaviors of humankind, and she suddenly _existed_, free of her psychological fog.

"Rid of me?" she calmly replied, "As do I, Absanoch. You will free me of my bondage to Graz'zt, end this cycle, break me from these mortals and their city, their kingdom. When demons are slain, Absanoch, we are accepted directly into the Abyss's welcoming arms. Devils cannot say the same. What if you die in this attempt, devil? What fate have you to anticipate, being demoted and degraded into a thoughtless soul-form at the lowest rungs of hellish society? Nevalle rides towards us; Asmodeus foresees it. The knight will stop at nothing to slaughter you."

Like a feral animal, Absanoch dug his heels into the frost, baring his fangs. Asmodeus observed them in silence, distant. Axarthys's stiff expression only hardened, and she fixed her pink eyes unblinkingly on the baatezu assassin. She muttered, "I am glad that Asmodeus foresaw the knight's entrance into Icewind Dale. We know now that your death gallops towards us, and I pray you shall embrace it as I have mine."

-

The three travelers soared north into the empty tundra, their horses' hoof beats muffled by the thickening dust of snow blanketing the solid ice beneath. Between Sisserou's foresight spells and Alice's tracing of spiritual energy, the adventurers approached the energy void of the Abyssal portal swiftly, over the course of what seemed interminable days. Following behind them was the knight, somber and hopeless, weary from the journey.

He knew it was the end, the end of Neverwinter, the end of his own life. Mortality unpredictably assaulted and engulfed his thoughts. Without her, he knew he would be devastated; if to make her loss even more excruciating, he could _never_ know that she would return to him in some other life. And just as strongly as he felt his own death drawing near, he felt Neverwinter's empire fracturing.

Nevalle saw a ring of fire only miles from the travelers, and smelled brimstone in the air. Within moments, he was blessed with the sight of Axarthys's stormy face and rosy horns, and his world unraveled.

-

Darmon stood in the frame of Nasher's bedchamber door, hesitating.

The Lord of Neverwinter opened an eye, groaning as he struggled to balance his back against the pillows supporting his withering body. He called the knight's name feebly, and heard Darmon answer with a sigh. The warrior's chocolate brown cloak swayed as he wavered, fearing to enter with the news he brought to his lordship.

But he eventually surrendered, and murmured, "I spied them, as you insisted. Alice and Sisserou left for Icewind Dale days ago."

"Where have you been since then?" Nasher coughed. Darmon peered into the chamber, gradually crossing the threshold as he ventured to the center of the room, crossing his arms nervously and eyeing his lord. His jaw tightened uncomfortably.

"I have spent my time at Casavir's estate, discussing… discussing _options_ for our kingdom with him, my lord," he announced. Nasher began to question the knight, but Darmon interceded, sparing his lord the breath. He ceded, "My lord, Sir Nevalle left with the medium and Sisserou. Casavir would not stop him from doing so. I do not think he shall return to accept the throne."

"He is a Knight of the Chalice-"

"Versed in battling fiends, I _understand_," Darmon interjected, "But do you think he'll pass the chance to secure his future with Axarthys? My lord… my lord, I mean to say that he will embrace death. He is foolhardy and smitten with a demon. Do not convince me otherwise that he will not chase her unto the ends of the Abyss. He has already descended into the lower planes once for her."

For a long while, Nasher was quiet. His thoughts were intermittently broken with a cough, or a struggling breath. The wordless silence ended with a defeated moan, as the lord of Neverwinter sank in a motion of surrender into the feather-down bedding, clutching faintly to the coverlets.

"Nevalle served Neverwinter obediently for many years," he began, "He has not always been zealous about his duties, particularly in recent days, yet he has given his life numberless times for our kingdom. To ask for his continued service until the end of his life would be selfish on our part. Perhaps we were meant to let him take his leave of us. Many would call him immoral for departing his people for a demon's embrace, yet he has loved her singularly and sincerely for over a decade's time."

"You _knew_ you would have let him go, had the chance arisen any other time," Darmon uttered. Nasher smiled gently, peacefully.

"Since he first became my squire, he has always been a son to me- a wayward and prodigal one, but a son nevertheless. He has served me dutifully, as any son should their father's wishes, and now I repay that debt with his freedom. Nevalle was never a slave to Neverwinter. Worry not, Darmon. Let us pray he returns victorious, if he does not at all."

-

Axarthys sin Saintrowe had fallen far out of touch with humanity. She could no longer act human, speak human, dress human. It did not matter how human her demon's body was, deprived of the spaded tail and wings it once proudly boasted. The slits of her serpentine pupils could no longer open doorways into the goodliness of her character. Within, he heart had blackened, and the coldness of her gaze did not deny it.

She no longer loved Nevalle as she had when he first danced with her, those many years ago in Neverwinter. She never consciously decided that she did not love him; the Abyss had simply removed her need for compassion from her. In her mind, Nevalle still epitomized safety, happiness, and the security of the mortal world. But he was an abstract concept, a goal, and not anyone of meaning to her. Axarthys knew this, and yearned to love him as she once did, meaning that her death and rebirth would- hopefully- restore her capacity to love him fully once more. He deserved better than the hollow husk that she'd become as the Abyss tightened its grip on her. Even in her current state, however, she desired him still.

The halo of his blonde hair, crowning the armored body riding towards her, sent a tremble through her legs and yearning through her mind. Absanoch coiled his fingers on the demon's forearm, announcing to Asmodeus, "They've arrived, my lord."

"Kill the demon," Asmodeus instructed, "Before the knight attempts anything heroic."

Before Nevalle could reach her, Absanoch unsheathed his sword and emptied the liquid contents of a vial on his belt onto the blade. He plunged it through Axarthys's torso. The demon felt only pressure as the point of the weapon pierced through the skin of her back, and the hilt thumped against her fragile ribcage. Soon, her tiny frame registered the immense pain of her injury, and then the sensation of burning. Absanoch had doused his sword in holy water.

"Had you not been my consort, Axarthys," he muttered into her ear, "I would have put you through a greater misery than this before you died. It will not be long, demon, before you again see the Abyss."

Leaving her body on his sword, Absanoch carried her to the summoning circle. Releasing her body from his blade, her midsection slipped off the impaling weapon and clung to the edge of the Abyss, prepared to fall into the pit and accept her death, so that she could be reborn. Before she perished, however, she felt Nevalle's hand snatching her wrist. Her eyes burst open, and she hissed, "Release me to my death, else I shall never return to you anew!"

"I need to tell you-"

"-There are no final words that could ever express the love I know you bear me. Go, my knight," Axarthys panted, cupping her bleeding wound as she gazed up towards him one last time, "Go and slay the devil Absanoch, and promise me- if I am your lady, as you have sworn me to be- that you might live fully, until you die."

"Axarthys!" He cried out to her, but she smiled. Fleetingly, she felt her old love for him again. She struggled to climb from the pit, to give him one last kiss, but was only able to claw at the pit's edge. Nevalle leaned over, kissing her brow, and she closed her eyes, her body weakening steadily.

"We cannot ever be happy in your world," she whispered, "I will find you again, Nevalle. Until then, you must find new happiness here."

She wriggled from his grasp, and her body disappeared in the smoke and flames licking the interior of the pit from the bottom of the Abyss. The ground quaked, and Sisserou dove forward, grabbing Nevalle and dragging him backwards into the snow before the earth closed up before them, and the land patched itself where the pit had been drawn. There remained only the carved surface of the summoning circle in the ice.

"A touching final speech," Asmodeus noted. Sisserou helped Nevalle to his feet, as Alice approached with her hands grasping the magical scrolls tucked in her belt. The arch devil paced around them once, and then passed by Absanoch, murmuring in his assassin's ear, "I leave you to these humans. Kill them, and make our message to Graz'zt known."

The devil dissipated in a cloud of red mist, which sunk to the earth and bubbled through the icy grounds and back into the Hells. Pointing his sword at the three companions, his stiffened expression broke into a chilling grin.

"Now, servants of Neverwinter, you will see the end of this game." He announced. Nevalle stepped forward, pushing the medium and the witch back.

"Defeat me first, devil, and you may have at them," Nevalle offered, "But do not lack the chivalry to deny me the right to defend these women."

"Very well," Absanoch agreed coldly, "I shall have little trouble slaughtering a man whose heart is weakened with the loss of his _demon_, and whose mind reels perpetually with obsession of her."

The knight knew that it was the end for him. He would never find the happiness Axarthys expected him to, not without her, and as she said, never in _his _world. He was damned, to be sure, and he would never see the light of Celestia. Though Axarthys would surely perish once she landed in the Abyss through the portal, and he would be absolved of his pact, his soul would be forever tarnished by the evil he'd wrought by loving her. No god, no angel could ever cure him of his love- his craving- for her. Life- at very least, his mortal life- was empty without her. Having nothing to lose, and only the netherworld to gain, Nevalle lifted his sword above his head and charged the devil.

Absanoch, surprised but not astonished by the knight's tactical deficit, extended his sword out in front of his chest, bracing himself as the human charged towards him still. _Impale yourself, then, _the devil coaxed in his mind, _leap onto the point of the blade and extinguish yourself._

But the devil had fatally miscalculated. Nevalle's great sword, at least a foot longer than his opponent's blade, came smashing through the devil's neck moments before the enemy's blade could pierce his body. Absanoch hadn't a moment to scream before the cold metal severed his head from his neck. Yet as his body lurched in defeat, he endeavored to expend the last of his energy thrusting the sword towards the looming knight's body. In one felling strike, the weapon crashed through Nevalle's lower abdomen just beneath his armor. Absanoch's head slipped from its neck and rolled through the snow, leaving a scarlet shadow of blood in its wake. The knight dropped his own weapon, registering the piercing agony of the wound in his side. As he looked down at the length of the sword in his chest, he watched the devil's dead hand slip limply from its hilt.

Sudden blood loss left him delirious. Sisserou and Alice rushed to his aid, and he felt the witch pulling the weapon from his body. He heard the click of buckles as someone unlatched his armor, and warm hands peeling the bloodied chainmail from underneath the metal plates. A thick, fur-lined cloak was tucked over his injured body. He felt magic- Sisserou's magic- coaxing him to fade into unconsciousness, and then Alice's voice, calling to him in the darkness.

His eyes parted momentarily, and the last sight he witnessed was the halo of the medium's hair, framing the teary grey of her eyes. Her skin was gloriously golden against the dead white of the tundra surrounding her, and there was a tepid, reddish blush to her chilly cheeks. She was serene, exquisitely so, but her tranquility and collectedness hardly betrayed the sadness in her gaze. So long confronted with demons, Nevalle struggled to comprehend the angel before him.

He collapsed, lifeless, in her arms.

-

Nevalle survived.

He could never return to the life of a knight. He'd been rendered lame from combat with Casavir over time, and so he retreated into court life, numbed by the same vices he adopted after he was parted from Axarthys the first time. Miserable and lonely, he found little solace. Sisserou and Casavir, the only people in Neverwinter who understood his suffering, we engrossed in the lives of their three daughters, immersed in a more serene life on their country estate. Darmon, who had accepted his role as regent, had no spare moments to spend soothing the miseries of his peers. Ladyship Alucié, his dear mother, had passed away peacefully at Swychcreste, leaving her son with the estate's care. But the knight had no energy to commute from Neverwinter to his ancestral home. Detached and isolated, as if a prisoner of Neverwinter himself, Nevalle withdrew from the world into Castle Never.

But Alice Reinhardt never forgot him.

She would bring him volumes from the city library and share with him her favorite tales of legend and lore with him, discussing religions of the Sword Coast and abroad as she sketched images of spirits she'd encountered in her mediumship work, accompanied by tales of their past lives. Her patience was endless; he could mourn his suffering aloud for hours to her, and she would listen tirelessly. When he had no will to eat, she would bring him a basket full of loaves and dried meat and insist that he did; when he could not sleep, she brewed chamomile tea to ebb at his restlessness. He slowly realized her subtle, modest beauty. She wore little makeup, though her skin was luminous, and her lips were consistently an inviting shade of rich peach. The blonde of her hair was platinum and silvery, and her tresses reflected their golden hue in the mirror-like grey of her eyes. As time passed, he began to measure his life in the moments until he would see her again.

Axarthys had been fleeting and volatile. But Alice was steadfast. She never parted his side when he needed her comfort and company most.

One morning, Nevalle fingered the canary-diamond ring he carried in his pocket. He intended to give it to Axarthys, his Yellow Orchid, his little lamb. It was decadent, exotic, and pleasantly oversized, fit for a princess of any realm. Yet his imagination recurrently envisioned it on Alice's hand. As much as he told himself that she was of a lower class, the less he cared that it was the case. He would marry Alice, he decided, and left the cell of his chambers for her shop in the Docks to present the ring to her. Before he set foot outside Black Lake, however, he brushed his thumb across the yellow surface of the diamond he carried. It would always be Axarthys's.

He proposed instead with a small, stately white diamond that graced the radiance of her skin like crystals on a chandelier enhancing the already brilliant glow of its fiery candles. They were wed, and soon bore a son named Norwood- a testament to the blondeness of both of his parents, with his father's eyes and his mother's placidity. They lived happily until the Weave collapsed, and magic destroyed Neverwinter, but even in death they did not suffer a miserable fate. Tyr was dead, but Alice and Norwood- a boy by the time the city fell- placed their religious faith solidly in Helm, and ascended to the emerald fields of Celestia peacefully, as happy as they were in their days at Swychcreste. Sisserou and Casavir, whose distant estate escaped the destruction in Neverwinter, grieved for their beloved friend and her cherished son. Swychcreste had been leveled, and so Alice and Norwood were interred next to Rodric, where Casavir and Sisserou left orchids on their graves.

Nevalle's body was never found, and his soul was barred from Celestia. The souls of his wife and son missed him sorely, and for what seemed millennia Alice often confided in the angels of Helm that she hoped her husband was spared the fires of the Hells.

He was. For not repenting his love for Axarthys, he was condemned to the Abyss instead.

It was a horrid process. His soul was torn, mutilated, and he toiled through endless layers of the lower planes as he sank deeper and deeper into his own damnation. Lost and terribly confused, he was shuffled with the other souls through the pits of the Abyss. He had no hope of ever seeing Axarthys. He'd spent a decade searching for her and wasn't granted a glimpse of her face, and had learned not to trust in what would inevitably flee him. Nevalle was dragged through the alleys of some unknown Abyssal metropolis by the soul-sellers, and drugged with deadly Luhix, could barely remain conscious as his spirit was auctioned off at a decadent market square to demons swathed in rare silks and printed satins. Depraved and avaricious, prices skyrocketed as tanar'ri clamored to purchase him as their own. As a slave, or worse, as a pet. An endless stream of auctioneers vied to have him, until at last their numbers slimmed, and one bid remained. After a second's pause, he was paraded out from the dais onto the street, and escorted behind an entourage of hideous beasts and mutated monsters to a lavish apartment in the city's blackened heart. Crumpling into a plush couch in the entry way, Nevalle did not regain consciousness for hours. When he did awaken from his stupor, however, his nightmare seemed merely that. Rubbing his forehead, he cautiously propped himself up on the couch, and gazed towards the other side of the room.

Seated across from him, draped entirely in golden fabric with snowy coils curling about a crowned forehead, was Axarthys sin Saintrowe.

She had changed since her death. Her complexion was darker, and her horns and eyes were no longer a meek shade of pale rose, but vibrant, grayish pink. Where there were systematically cut holes in her dress, horns poked from her dark flesh, and small ones dotted the ends of her brows. Her smile was inhuman, but not unattractive, and the red of her lips repeated itself in the scarlet blood tracing one of her eyes and coursing down cheek. It seemed frozen in time, as if she'd suffered some temporary stigmata congealed permanently on her flesh, staining her skin.

"I predicted that it would end this way," she announced. Her voice was reaped of its melody entirely, yet the confidence in her tone revealed that she'd grown accustomed to her own demonic sound. Nevalle, in disbelief, sat up in his seat and reached for her hand. Her touch was warm. The demon smiled faintly, murmuring, "Dying succeeded in ridding me of the cold, but I see it could not stop your damnation."

"I was not bound here by a pact," he assured her, but the demon shook her head.

"You have chosen this, and that answer shall suit me," she promised in return. Axarthys entangled her fingers in his, and slithered off her chair. She sat down next to him, stroking his shoulder as if to ascertain his reality fully. She whispered, "I've waited for you, my knight, my pet."

"I cannot say I have done the same," he regretted, "Nor was I a knight, after you left me last. I was crippled and unable to fight, and resigned from the Nine. I then married the medium, bore a son, and perished in the defeat of Neverwinter. They now enjoy the fields of Celestia, while I- I linger here."

The demon knew; the knight saw it in her eyes. She merely shrugged the elegant and bare curve of her shoulder, evident beneath the chiffon of the top of her gown. She asked, "Do you miss them, then?"

She could not understand why he cared. She was a demon.

"They are happy, as their souls should be," he answered. Sorrow passed over his face as he recognized the extent to which he pined for their company, and to which he'd forgotten his former desperation to be with this demon. His wife, his son, his family- he would never see their faces again. He was too shocked, too miserable too quickly, to cry.

In the end, Nevalle achieved what he'd always longed for. He spent eternity with Axarthys. Yet he gave everything he loved for it, and wept endlessly for his wife and son, for Rialnah, and shouted in his sleep at the fury he felt for Casavir and Sisserou. They lived on, enjoying sunlit fields and quiet evenings and most of all, the company of their children. _Children. _All his life as a nobleman, Nevalle desired a son, and he had it in Norwood. Now, he would not see Norwood for all eternity. The Eden he envisioned never was to be found between the demon's grey arms. It had been in Alice Reinhardt, the common-born woman he once shunned from his presence, and in the son that would have inherited his title. Paradise was perpetually lost to him.

Axarthys sin Saintrowe, a demon, the Lamb, conquered him.

-

Author's Notes:

As ever, you have my humble thanks for your continued readership. TBC was a pleasure to write, and I hope it's been just as much a pleasure for you to read. I sought to write a convincing, realistic ending to my tale- insofar as supernatural fiction allows realism, and while still allowing my main characters to be together in the end (after all, if they didn't hook up after two stories, it would be quite the let down!)

With my love always,

Valah


End file.
